


Little Red

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, a plucky college junior donned a red hoodie and butch boots, fired up her rusted-out Le Baron, and went on a road trip to Palm Springs (to visit caustic Grandma Mars). Along for the ride (because who doesn't love road trips?) are: her vivacious heiress roommate, Lilly, whose constant gift-giving hides a secret agenda: Lilly's somehow-too-perfect, future-senator brother: and Lilly's surly celebutante ex, who sports a suspiciously toothy grin, and a sackful of red apples.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Sure Are Looking Good

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for BryroseA, Jen, and the rest of my AO3 friends who said, "DOOOO IIIIIT." Rated M for Lo-Ve smut, celebutante shenanigans, old-school fairy-tale undertones, and wacky nights on the town.

[](http://imgur.com/2O1hV3O)

****Cover art by the lovely and talented lilamadison11****

Veronica Mars is double-parked near the Hearst co-ed dorm, cramming an extra-large vinyl suitcase into the trunk of her LeBaron, when her phone rings. 

She huffs exasperation, pressing down with all her strength, then giving an extra jumping shove to get the lid shut. She digs her Sidekick out of her messenger bag. “Dad,” she says, overly cheerful, as she climbs into to the driver’s seat. “You’re seriously lost without me, aren’t you? We just hung up five minutes ago!”

“I want to make sure you got ALL the cookbooks your Grandma loaned me,” he replies, sounding apologetic. In the background, Veronica can hear her Aunt Shirley playing the piano and singing: both are off-key, which might account for his angst. “She asked me to remind you one more time that there are THREE, located on the shelf behind the…”

“Dad, I got ‘em,” Veronica insists, cranking the engine, giving it a careful trickle of gas. It sputters and dies, so she smacks the dash and tries again. This time, it flares to life. “The Mars Family Secret Recipes, every volume. They’re resting in my suitcase as we speak. AND I scanned all the pages first, like you asked, AND I left a CD with the file on your desk. Don’t worry, OK? Go make Aunt Shirley a cocktail or something, so she’s too drunk to sing by the time I get there.”

“Sweetie, your Aunt Shirley’s had one too many cocktails already.” He sighs, and Veronica’s willing to bet he’s running a hand over his bald head. “You’ve got the map I marked up for you, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “Dad, it’s a two-hour drive to Palm Springs. What could go wrong?”

“Just stay on I-15,” he warns. “Don’t try any clever shortcuts. And wear something warm, there’s a cold front moving in.”

“I’ve got a hoodie,” she tells him, shoving up one red-cotton sleeve to check her watch. “I’ll be fine. But I need to get going, now-ish, if you want me there in time for dinner.”

“Ok, honey. See you soon. Oh, and if you spot any trench-coat-wearing hitchhikers, carrying chainsaws? Remember, don’t stop.”

“Go enjoy some sibling togetherness,” Veronica snarks, and switches off her phone. She dons sunglasses, sticks her father’s map in the cup holder, and takes off towards the highway, in a burst of black exhaust.

XXXXX

Her car gives up the ghost 73 miles outside Neptune, on a lonely stretch of road. The light is dimming—it’s the time of year when days grow short—and a cold wind rustles the sawgrass, sprouting sparsely from the sandy roadside. 

Veronica checks the engine. It’s a freaking cracked oil pan, again: and she took the crate of spare bottles out of the trunk, to make room for her suitcase. “Why wasn’t I born rich?” she hisses at no one, kicking a tire to vent. “Why did I spend all my savings booking a dorm room for the year, instead of buying a new car?”

She knows why. Because her father wants to let the apartment lease lapse, and move in with Alicia Fennel. And tagging along, when Alicia already has two kids at home, sounded like too much togetherness for a 21 year old.

She pulls out her phone to call her Dad and AAA, not necessarily in that order, but she’s got no service. “Ugh, the universe HATES me!” she mutters to herself. “Just once, can’t I earn a fucking break?”

As if in answer, a black SUV crests the hill in the distance, drifting silently nearer through the gloom. Veronica grabs a flashlight from the glove box, switches it on, steps onto the asphalt to request they pull over. “Please don’t be a chainsaw-wielding murderer,” she murmurs, like a prayer. “Please be a nice soccer mom with cute kids, who lives to help strangers.”

The car rolls to a stop beside her, nonchalantly blocking the road, and the driver’s side window powers down. She walks around, trying to seem bulletproof, and then no. Oh, no.

It’s Logan Echolls, her suitemate’s surly, Hollywood-spawn ex: he’s dressed, appropriately, in black, sporting a suspiciously toothy grin. “Why Veronica Mars!” he taunts, drawling each syllable as if it tastes good. “What’s a nice girl like you doing on this dark highway, all alone? Don’t you know the bad things come out at night?”


	2. The Kind of Eyes That Drive Wolves Mad

“Of course. It WOULD be you!” Veronica says, throwing up her hands in disgust and stalking off. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get worse.”

“Is that any way to talk to your rescuer?” Logan calls, as she slaps her driver’s door open, and slumps in the seat. He maneuvers his car off the highway, climbs out. “I admit, I’m more into defiling princesses than slaying their dragons. But I’ve got Neptune’s answer to JFK Jr. in the backseat. He does a moderately convincing Prince Charming.”

“Shut up, Logan,” a baritone voice calls, from within the SUV, and Veronica winces while Echolls laughs. “Is that Duncan?” she asks. “Is Lilly with you, too?”

“Road trip,” he confirms with a half-smile, curling his fingers around the windowsill beside her. He’s in black jeans and combat boots, a cashmere sweater so thin and soft she can see his muscles beneath. The watch on his wrist cost more than her car did, semi-new, and she doesn’t much want to owe him anything.

Which he realizes, because his grin grows slightly evil, as he stares down at her in the gathering dusk. “Care to show me what’s wrong?” he asks.

“Do you even know anything about cars?” she counters, not getting up. His eyes are so dark she can’t see the pupils, and she finds it hard to look away.

“I can call a mechanic with a tow truck,” he says. “And I’m fairly conversant with back seats.”

She presses her lips together to keep from retorting. This is the guy who dumped her highly lovable roommate to bang both a married Laker Girl, and a high-school senior (but kept hanging around, anyway). He’s right, though, in this specific instance. She needs him.

“Fine,” she says, like she’s doing HIM a favor. “Make the call.”

He laughs, as if she’s genuinely entertaining, and obligingly dials. “Hey Roderick,” he says into the speaker, smarmily over-cheerful. “It’s Logan Echolls. Yeah…uh-huh, man, I’m sure dad would've appreciated that. You know he loved the Aston Martin way more than he did me.”

He fake-chortles, an expression of exaggerated hilarity on his face that makes Veronica want to crack up. “Listen, dude, having a little problem here. Yeah, my friend’s car broke down about 75 miles out of Neptune on 1-15, and I need a tow. Yeah, ASAP, although to be honest, anybody who stole this thing would be doing her a favor.”

She snarls at him, and he grins, unrepentant. “Yeah, it’s a rusted-out black Le Baron convertible, license plate PLX-937. We’ll leave the keys under the driver’s side floor mat. Put it on the Amex, she and I will work out terms.”

He hangs up without waiting for an answer, and she says, “I don’t make deals with the devil.”

He bobs his eyebrows at her. “Do you get in cars with sketchy acquaintances? Because otherwise, you’ll be sitting here all night.”

She sighs. “Do you at least have candy?”

He laughs, full-throated, opens her door with a flourish. “I know you hate me,” he says, offering a hand to help her up. “But Veronica? It’s not mutual.”

“I have a suitcase in the trunk,” she tells him, popping the latch and narrowing her eyes. “If you like me so much, you can carry it.”

He smirks and hefts the vinyl monstrosity easily, then tucks it under one arm, which is, frankly, showing off. He shoves it into the back of the Range Rover while she hides the keys, opens the rear door for her with another elaborate bow, then skip-spins away to the driver’s seat.

She climbs in next to Duncan, Lilly’s brother, who’s dressed rich-casual in an untucked striped Oxford, loafers and jeans. He’s tall and handsome, with startling blue eyes, and dark hair that holds a Superman curl: but his face is devoid of expression. He nods at Veronica, not smiling, and faces forward again.

“Well, if it isn’t little miss Pan High!” Lilly croons, from the shotgun seat. She peers around the headrest, big blue eyes dancing with secrets, glossy gold hair swinging. “I thought you were planning a cozy holiday at Grandma’s house. Car wasn’t up to the challenge?”

“That thing is a death trap,” Logan says, before Veronica can answer. “It might as well be made of pungi sticks, and covered in feces.”

“Ew, WAY too descriptive,” Lilly complains, flicking him in the shoulder. “No more history for you. I wish you’d just taken my Mercedes, Veronica. I TOLD you I wouldn’t be using it.”

“I am not borrowing your super-expensive E Class for a long-distance overnight. It’s very generous of you, Lilly, but I don’t need the stress.”

“Oh, whatever,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “Like I couldn’t buy one in every color, if I wanted. Besides, you’re very safe and responsible. You drive like a 65 year old spinster.”

Logan snorts, and Veronica kicks the back of his seat. 

“So is she coming with us?” Duncan ventures. Veronica startles. She forgets he’s present, sometimes: when he talks, it’s like hearing a mannequin speak.

“Coming with you where?” she asks, surreptitiously checking her phone. Still no service, and it’s down to 10%.

“Vegas, baby,” Logan says, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “We have a suite at The Artisan for the next three days. Feel like letting Grandma twist in the wind? It’s too late, now, for your wholesome Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Crap, my dad must be so worried. Can I use one of your phones to call him? Anybody not have Sprint?”

“Charging,” Logan says, pointing at the sleek slimline docked in the cupholder. “Lils?”

“No service on mine, either,” she announces, digging something pink and rhinestone-encrusted out of her bag. “And Donut doesn’t own one.”

“Everyone I want to talk to is in this car,” Duncan intones, then proceeds to not talk to them.

Veronica sighs, and flops back on her seat. “OK,” she says, admitting defeat. “When we get where you’re going, I'll rent a compact.”

She can see the side of Logan’s face in the rearview; he’s smiling. Probably he knows she doesn’t have the money to rent a BICYCLE, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Veronica drifts into a doze, and doesn’t notice the Palm Springs exit approaching. Logan does, but he keeps right on driving.


	3. I'm Gonna Keep My Sheep Suit On

CHAPTER THREE

Veronica comes awake slowly, to colored lights splashing in waves across her skin, soft music and murmuring voices. Duncan sits beside her, hands on knees, eyes closed, unmoving. Like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“….just so WHOLESOME,” Lilly’s saying, from the shotgun seat. “Don’t you think she’s wholesome? Those big blue eyes, those rosy cheeks? The sureness that the world can be divided into heroes and villains, and she’s on the winning side? I bet she was prom queen, at her little school. I bet she wore a sash, and rode a float made of paper roses.”

“Lils, Paris Hilton seems wholesome, compared to you,” Logan drawls. Something about the way he talks—gnarly California accent, voice that slides up and down an octave in a sentence, overly precise enunciation—hits Veronica low in the belly. If she didn’t speak English, it’d still be clear he’s sarcastic as hell. “Besides, you’re wrong. She’s got edge. She’s just not a jaded, gaping void, so desperate to be filled she’ll consume garbage. Like the rest of us.”

“Oooh, I LOVE that,” Lilly croons. “Let’s find a slam poetry session, once we’re checked in. You can recite it on a dark stage, to a bunch of tattoed Goths, and use dramatic arm gestures to emphasize your point. Maybe cry a single tear.”

“You know you like me best vicious and brooding,” he counters, unfazed by this eviscerating comment.

“Mmm, you’re nasty,” she agrees. “And a withholding tease. But you and I both know how you’d RATHER be. If I’d let you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “In a different relationship. Banging someone friendlier, who doesn’t think cruelty adds spice.”

“Veronica’s awake,” Duncan says, from his dark corner, without opening his eyes. She jerks guiltily and sits up, pretending to yawn.

“Welcome to Sin City!” Lilly crows, voice bubbling with mirth. Veronica hopes she suspects nothing. “Ready to let your inner hedonist out to play?”

“I could go for a burger,” Veronica admits. “And a hot bath. And a place to charge my laptop, so I can search for rental cars. Not sure how HEDONISTIC that is.”

“We have reservations,” Logan wheedles, narrowing his eyes as he navigates a left turn. “At Guy Savoy, in two hours. I’ve seen you eat, Veronica. You’ll be kicking yourself for the rest of your life, if you skip this to surf the web.”

“He’s one of the best chefs in France,” Lilly agrees, turning in her seat to skewer Veronica with a grin. “We’ve ordered a private room, and a 17-course tasting menu, with Reserve champagne. This is so much better than your Grandma’s box stuffing, it’s not even in the same ballpark.”

“My grandma’s Italian,” Veronica says. “Nothing she makes comes from a box. Or simmers on the stove for less than 10 hours.”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Logan argues. “What are the odds you’re going to find an open rental car company, with an available car, before tomorrow? No matter how hard you search?” He glances at her in the rearview, and his eyes are twinkling. “Branch out, Mars. It won’t kill you to live a little.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she protests. But weakly, because he’s right about the car. And a 17-course tasting menu sounds amazing.

“Then it’s a good thing the restaurant’s in Caesar’s Palace,” Lilly says, dryly. “Just past a massive high-end mall.”

“I’m also broke,” Veronica tells her. “Until next Tuesday.”

“Well, I’m not.” Lilly plumps back down in her seat, facing forwards, like it’s all decided. “Consider me your fairy godmother, for the rest of the trip. I know you’d help ME out, if I ever needed a favor.”

A soft sound comes from Logan that might be a snort, but he says nothing. Instead he pulls into a circular drive, in front of a white hotel. It looks like a fever-dream Big Top, dressing-room-mirror lights lining the carport, patterned marble paving. Yellow and black striped damask curtains frame the entrance. He climbs out, leaving the door open, the keys dangling.

“I’ll check us in, then we’ll head to Caesar’s,” he says, with a mocking salute. He gestures with his chin at a bell boy, who’s lurking by the curtains with a gold luggage cart. “Back in five.”

“That guy really enjoys running the show,’ Veronica mutters, watching him go. “Does he ever do anything anyone ELSE wants?”

Lilly laughs. “If he feels like it,” she says. “If there’s something in it for him.”

“Logan’s unpredictable,” Duncan says, opening his eyes, and fixing Veronica with his piercing blue gaze. “And occasionally dangerous. Those are his best qualities.”

XXXXX

“I LOVE it!” Lilly pronounces, surveying Veronica in the three-way mirror. “You look like a PIRATE!”

They’re in the Gucci boutique at Caesar’s Mall, and Veronica’s decked out in black and red, from this year’s ready-to-wear collection: skin-tight, black-velvet hiphugger slacks: a black silk peasant blouse as fine as cobwebs, embroidered with red roses: and a long, red, swirly coat with black detailing, that swings around her when she walks.

“The shirt’s see-through,” Veronica protests. “I mean, I like it, but I’m not a showing-my-boobs-in -public kinda gal.”

Lilly snaps her fingers, absently, and the hovering salesgirl offers, “We have a lovely silk camisole you can layer underneath. Size zero, right?”

“Perfect,” Lilly says. The girl strides off on legs so long, Veronica wonders if she’s a Rockette. 

Lilly steps to the side to admire herself. She’s in a painted-on, long-sleeved, leopard-print dress from Michael Kors: it’s cinched at the waist with a narrow black belt, and suits her admirably. She’s spent Veronica’s trips to the dressing room redoing her hair and makeup, with the contents of her voluminous purse. She’s got scarlet lips now, and smoky eyes, and her hair’s smoothed into a sleek, high ponytail that accentuates her cheekbones. “We are SO HOT, Veronica Mars,” she decides, studying their reflection. “The world won’t know what hit it.”

She’s on her phone again when Veronica ducks behind the curtain, to don the camisole (which has a lower v-neck than she hoped, but is a great improvement over her plain green bra). When Veronica emerges, there’s a salesperson with a Louboutin tag kneeling in front of Lilly, zipping spike-heeled, knee-high leopard boots tenderly up her calves.

“Those are for you,” Lilly calls, gesturing at a pair of black patent-leather ankle boots, with bright red soles. The young be-suited guy turns on his knees with a smile, and subjects Veronica to the same foot-fetishist treatment.

Lilly peels a bunch of bills off a roll, stuffs them in his pocket with a pat. He stands, looking down at her like he wants to kiss. “Thanks,” she purrs. “You’re a lifesaver. Now you,” she tells Veronica, dismissing him by turning her back. “Makeup! Then jewelry. Then we have GOT to meet the guys, because we can NOT be late for this meal.”

Veronica lets Lilly paint her mouth the same vivid red, give her a liquid-liner catlike look, and arrange her hair in an up-do, with crystal-tipped pins. Lilly growl-purrs at her, widening her eyes flirtatiously: Veronica laughs, because she really does feel like Cinderella. Then she’s dragged off, by the wrist, to Tiffany’s.

Lilly’s a kid in a candy store, gleeful and avaricious, trailing a finger lovingly over the cases. She taps the glass above a pair of star-patterned diamond cascade earrings, and the clerk pulls them out with a grin. 

She holds them up to Veronica’s ears, with a murmured, “Ooh, nice,” and Veronica knows it’s time to draw a line.

“Lilly,” she tries, “I’ll accept the outfit, under protest, because I know the restaurant has a dress code, and all I’ve got in my suitcase are jeans. But I’m gonna have to say no to diamonds.”

“Suit yourself,” Lilly says, with a toss of her head. She proceeds to drop five grand on a pair of big, gold heart-shaped hoops for herself, and a ring with the same motif. Then she throws in matching studs, which she hands over as they leave, with a casual, “Just take them. Your ears look naked.”

“Lilly, these were $600.00,” Veronica protests, looking down at the fancy box.

“Oh, whatever, Veronica, that’s practically free.”

XXXXX

The restaurant screams understated elegance, done up in beige, brown and gold, with dark wood lattices spanning the walls. They’re met at the door by a handsome French guy in a coordinated jacket, who greets Lilly by name, kisses her cheeks. He leads them past the tables to a long, white room: it’s decorated with expensive art and a large gold ‘KRUG’, under which Logan and Duncan are waiting.

Logan’s in a beautiful suit that molds to his slouching frame: it seems silver until the light hits, then turns birch-leaf green. It’s a mod style—looks a little 60’s—with a snug matching waistcoat, and the cloud-colored shirt and sour-apple tie blend. He straightens from his one-shoulder wall lean when he sees Veronica, silently whistling approval, and shoots his cuffs. His gold cufflinks catch the light.

Duncan’s in a blue-grey pinstriped suit of more conventional cut, with an ice-blue shirt, Prussian blue tie and pocket square. His hair’s pomaded back, and the effect is somehow British. He’s frowning and checking his watch, when they enter, like he’s late for tea with the Queen.

Veronica stops in front of Logan, and smiles. Something catches fire in his dark gaze, as he smirks down at her. “Maybe 25% wholesome,” he murmurs, only for her ears. “Just enough adorableness to make a cunning disguise.”

She laughs, not surprised he knew she was listening. “I look EXPENSIVE,” she corrects, smile lingering. “And so do you. Like, literally worth a million bucks.”

“Saville Row bespoke,” he says, with a bob of his eyebrows. “I have FIVE.” He pulls out a chair for her, with a flourish, tucks her gently in. Does the same for Lilly, before flinging himself into the seat at the table’s head. He picks up his wineglass, examines it for spots. 

Duncan seats himself to Veronica’s right, which she finds unsettling: whenever she turns left to look at Logan, she can’t see him at all. 

A startlingly handsome waiter, in the white-shirt, brown-vest-and-slacks uniform, enters. He nods with what’s not quite a bow. He’s got black sloe eyes that twinkle, and dark windswept hair, and he looks about twenty. “Bonne soiree, messieurs-dames!” he calls out in a cheerful voice, clapping his hands, then rubbing them together. “Welcome to Maison Guy Savoy! I’m called Vincent, I will serve you this evening.” 

Lilly grins at this, and he grins back, aware of the double entendre. Veronica decides she likes Vincent. “I understand that there is one among you who requests a replacement course, for the amuse bouche and the langoustine?”

Logan raises his spoon, and smiles when Veronica frowns. “I’m allergic to shellfish,” he elaborates. “No lobster, shrimp or crab.”

“Like allergic-allergic, or it’s just not your thing?” she asks. “Because my grandma claims to be allergic to milk, but she eats Bolognese and ice cream all the time.”

“Like I go into anaphylactic shock, and my throat swells shut,” he says. “I carry an epi pen. Now you know how to murder me, and make it look like an accident.”

“I’ll bring you something else amazing,” Vincent promises him. “You will not feel disappointed. Alors, I have for you here this bread cart, you may choose what you like. I’ll return very soon with wine.”

There are enough artisanal loaves on the cart to feed a family for a month. Veronica chooses a plain baguette, which is still warm inside when she cracks the crispy crust. She slathers it with butter, bites down, and is shocked by the delicious, tangy taste.

“Real sourdough,” Logan clarifies, mouth crooking. “Made from starter. You’ve never had one?”

She shakes her head, chewing: she’s had sourdough, but not like this. He says, “There’s a boulangerie on every street corner in France. Instead of Starbucks. People buy a two-foot specimen of this for a Euro, and gnaw the end off on the way home.”

“I’ve never been to France,” Veronica says wistfully, buttering another bite. “Or even out of the country, beyond weekend trips to Mexico.”

“I like Italy better,” Lilly interjects, waving away Duncan’s offer of bread. “Great shoes, white sand beaches, and dark-eyed, dangerous men.”

“France has EXCELLENT beaches,” Logan protests, as Vincent and two other guys bustle in, distributing small plates, opening wine. He gets green soup, and a little seafood cake: everyone else has nuggets of white fish, wrapped in seaweed. “Montpellier is awesome.”

“What is it with you and the low-rent tourist destinations?” Duncan asks, rolling his eyes, popping his appetizer into his mouth. “No casinos, no luxury hotels, not even any surfing. It’s like you WANT to mingle with fat, topless vacationers.”

Veronica sees one of the waiters glance at Vincent, surprised. He gives a minute head shake.

“Nobody recognizes me there,” Logan says, almost wistfully, holding his glass up for wine. It froths in, bubbling, pale gold beneath the lights. “Or if they do, they’re too polite to say so, which is rarely the case at home. Montpellier is just as beautiful as Cannes, without being overrun by pretentious LA assholes.”

Veronica smiles at Vincent as he fills her glass, and he smiles back. “Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs,” he informs her. “Champagne. King of wines.”

“And the appetizer?”

“Lobster,” he says. “We wake up the palate with flavors of the sea.”

She stares thoughtfully at her food and sips, while the waiters fuss over Lilly, then slip away. “Aren’t you going to eat it?” Lilly asks, after a long silent moment passes.

“Sorry,” Veronica says, starting back to awareness. “Planning the perfect crime. Eat this, kiss Logan, it’s all over but the hymns.”

Lilly laughs, a delighted, tinkling rill, and Veronica grins at Logan, holding her glass up in a toast. He shakes his head at her, taps her drink with his. “You’re NOT eating it, I notice.”

She shrugs. “I guess it’s not your day to die.”

Duncan reaches for her plate, eyebrows raised in question, and she nods. Logan slumps back, studying her. “The next course is shellfish too, you know. If you want me that badly, you’ll have to go hungry.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. The young waiter, who’s approached to refill her wine, leans slightly forward. “Do you prefer Colors of Caviar?” he asks, his voice heavily accented and whisper-soft. “It’s delicious, vinaigrette and caviar, haricots and cream.”

“I’ve always WANTED to try caviar!” she exclaims, mock-ingenuous: he smiles and nods, backs out. Logan says nothing, but laughs at her with his eyes. 

“So tell me about France,” she invites, sipping her wine. “And Italy, and everywhere. Make me feel like I’m there, because I may never have the money to go.”

“France has a scent: perfume, cigarettes, powdery mildew,” Logan obliges, with a smile. “It’s mostly agricultural, with farms straight off a postcard, and forests of beech trees. In Provence, it smells like sunflowers and lavender, sounds like bees, and the light is this amazing, diffused gold that makes everything seem magic. ITALY smells like dirt and spices, sun-baked clay: and everybody looks and sounds sleepy, but they’re more awake than you. The food is excellent, in both countries, and people spend their free time outside. They eat, not THIS lavishly, but more ceremoniously than we do, and they believe that life should be about pleasure, not work. You’d love Europe, Veronica. It’s a puzzle to solve, learning the ins and outs of another country. It’s sensualist, and an adventure.

“Everything is ancient over there, much more so than in America. Thirty-thousand year old painted caves, two-thousand year old Roman baths. Farmhouses from the Middle Ages, covered in graffiti, with people still living inside. Chateaus from the Age of Aristocracy, turned into museums about the Revolution. The roads are narrow and twisty, and don’t follow a grid—some of them are still cobbled. The buildings are decorated with art deco carvings. Even the lamp posts have baskets of flowers on them, to make them more fancy. 

“And the food is—ask Vincent to tell you about terroir, and appellations. Every French person can, even kids. Their laws about additives and how things are made are much stricter than ours, and they use methods as old as houses to do things right. Ooh, ask Vincent to tell you about DIGESTION, if you want to hear theories that last all night.”

This last is overheard by the waiter, as he leads his minions back in, and he laughs. “You’re explaining how we eat?” he asks, and Logan grins. “Live food,” Vincent elaborates. “Very important. Cheese, wine, vinegar, bread, cultured butter. Fruits grown in good soil. Strengthening herbs. In America, all the food is processed and dead, it’s no good. Makes people fat. This meal can be an education, yes? Because it’s very rich, very spectacular, but it’s healthy due to quality. The portions are small, the ingredients are the best. You enjoy it, it nourishes you.”

He sets a layered cup like a parfait in front of Veronica, and she digs in. It’s got a hundred flavors: creamy, salty, tangy, briny, vegetal sweetness, pungent spice. They blend into something unctuous and amazing. “Wow,” she says, and eats more.

“Langoustine in cold steam,” he continues, smiling, and sets a seafood dish in front of Lilly. He presents a little pitcher, for everyone’s inspection, then carefully pours liquid through holes in the plate. “Beneath, in the bowl, there is dry ice. I add seawater and voila! It cooks.”

Steam billows out, wreathing the dish like it’s a San Francisco foggy morning, and Veronica laughs. “The magic of chemistry,” Logan says.

Lilly takes a bite, then crooks a beguiling finger at Logan: he smiles his toothiest, most dangerous smile, and doesn’t move. Veronica can’t help wondering if this is how their sex life played out, in a nutshell.

“What’s terroir?” she asks Vincent, to break the tension, and his eyes glint with interest as he looks at her.

“Let me explain at the next course,” he says. “It’s a perfect example. That one has caviar, too,” he adds, with a sly glance at her scraped-clean cup.

She savors the last of her wine, while she waits: watches from the corner of her eye as Duncan methodically cleans his plate. She wonders if he ever enjoys anything.

“Terroir means the properties of soil,” Logan says. He’s sprawled back in his chair, cradling his wineglass in one big hand, watching her. “But it’s more than that. It’s the specific qualities of a place that make the food produced there taste the way it does. Like if sparkling wine comes from Italy, it can be good, but it won’t have the flavor of Champagne. And you can’t call it Champagne.”

“This is the appellation,” Vincent adds, catching the gist of Logan’s statement as he brings in plates. “Very strict laws, about which regions can make which types of wine and cheese, and how, you understand. The temperature, the sunlight, the microorganisms in the dirt, they work together one way in one place, differently in another.”

He sets a dish in front of Veronica, grandly. “This is asparagus, with caviar, very simple. The cheese is a goat cheese, from Chavignol, called crottin, very famous. The wine is Sancerre, also from Chavignol.” He pours her a glass, which looks like pale sunshine. “Taste them together, the flavors. They have the same terroir, so they blend.”

She does. The wine is deliciously lemony, and the tang of the cheese complements it. “This is SO WONDERFUL,” she says, and Vincent smiles.

“You have a discerning palate,” he tells her gravely, with a twinkle. She laughs, because she’s the most unsophisticated person in the room. 

“And I thought YOU were just a dilettante with a pretty face,” she fake-accuses Logan, between bites.

“Oh, I am,” he agrees, leaning forward on his elbows. “I just file away facts that might impress girls. Admit it: this worked.”

“You know, I WILL admit,” she says, tapping her spoon against her lower lip. “I thought caviar would be slimy and disgusting. Because, you know, fish eggs. It’s not, though. It tastes different from anything I’ve liked before. But in a good way.”

Logan smirks at her and drains his glass, and she wonders if he thinks she’s not talking about caviar.

“Forget the food,” Lilly says, watching the two of them with a sly smile that means mischief. “The wine tonight is AMAZING. I wonder what he’s bringing next.”

“I think it’s deep sea fish,” Logan says, twirling a bit of asparagus on his fork. “So probably pinot noir.”

Veronica shakes her head: despite his nonchalance, she’s starting to think he CHOSE the menu. And that he’s the architect of this adventure, with the Kanes, like herself, shanghaied along for the ride. She can believe they’re too immature to provide their own structure, and willing to follow his lead. But what Logan gets out of the weekend, when Lilly’s a girl he dumped, and Duncan’s weird as fuck, she hasn’t a clue.

Vincent breezes back in, and yup, it’s squares of fish on greens, with crisp-fried skin still attached, and pale peony-pink wine. The wine is sweet, floral, and the fish has a faint vanilla flavor, addictive with the salty crunch. Veronica’s not sure she can handle 13 more courses this delicious, but she gives it the old college try. 

The meal is amazing. Salmon, seasoned with Himalayan salt, cooked on a block of dry ice. Quail, with a smoky sauce presented in an eggshell (which they crack, pouring the contents over the meat). Foie gras, served in a black truffle broth: and, Veronica’s position on the inhumanity of foie gras notwithstanding, the dish is freaking delicious. There’s duck, smoked with lavender and fennel, butter-tender steak with a sesame-seed crust, several kinds of rich, red wine. The highlight is an artichoke-truffle soup, with a mushroomy toast for dipping: it makes Veronica moan so much, she catches Logan adjusting his trousers.

By the time they get to the cheese course—something sharp and tangy stacked with truffles and beets, and something soft and creamy, served with freeze-dried olives and bacon bread—Veronica’s fuller than she’s ever been, and not sure how much more she can stand.

“This must be how they felt in the Middle Ages,” she groans, cutting off just one more bite of cheese. “When they’d sat through 14 clove-flavored courses, and the servants brought out blackbird pie.”

“Dessert is next,” Logan coaxes, with a bob of his eyebrows. “Unbutton your pants if you need to. No one will judge.”

She makes a face at him, tipsy enough to feel little restraint, and he leans towards her, laughs. “Are you drunk?” he asks, voice caressing.

She leans in, too. “Not drunk enough to take my clothes off in a restaurant,” she murmurs, and his grin turns wicked.

“Why Veronica Mars! It seems weirdly like you’re flirting with me.” His voice is deeper now. It strokes her, velvety.

“You’re imagining things,” she whispers, and she can feel his breath on her cheek, wine-flavored. “Maybe you’re the one who’s drunk.”

He inhales deeply, and she wonders if he’s smelling her. Sits back, donning his most innocent expression. “Then you’d better not take advantage of me,” he chides, with a quirk of his eyebrows. “That wouldn’t be right.”

She rolls her eyes. He gestures with his chin at Vincent, who’s leading the parade back in, and says, “Frozen lava cake. We’ll continue the innuendos some other time.”

Lilly’s staring at Veronica, her eyes alight with laughter: Veronica blushes under the scrutiny, turns away. She’s just shown her secret weakness for hot-but-evil, done Logan Echolls style…and Lilly, strangely, doesn’t seem to mind. Lilly tilts towards Logan, while Vincent arranges dessert, and whispers.

Logan stares up at the ceiling, exasperated: he swallows, Adam’s apple sliding visibly across his long throat. Shoots a flickering glance at Veronica that’s oddly heated. Then jerks his head away from Lilly’s mouth. 

Veronica REALLY wonders what Lilly said.

She presses her fork into the frozen confection, and it cracks, molten chocolate spilling from the fissures. She scoops some up with her spoon, and oh, man. It’s the best course yet.

She tries the accompanying wine—rich and sweet, as molasses-smooth and resonant as Logan’s murmurs, and closes her eyes against the sensation. It’s so good with the chocolate, it’s almost sexual. She feels a definite twinge.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Duncan asks, to her right, and she jerks in startlement, wine splashing her hand.

“Yeah,” she says, with a pained smile, dabbing at the spill with her napkin. “Sorry, daydreaming. Maybe I SHOULD stop drinking.”

“You’re really blonde, aren’t you?” he wants to know, ignoring this statement. “It’s not dye.”

“Um, no,” she admits. “My mom’s mostly Swedish.”

He nods, subsides back into silence, and she wonders if EVERYBODY gets the ants-crawling-on-their-skin sensation, when they talk to him. Or if she’s just lucky.

She bends to her cake, focusing, but Lilly croons, “Dessert cart!”, like she’s Eve, tempting, and Veronica’s eyes glaze over as she looks up. Because it appears to have been assembled by Willy Wonka.

“Paris Brest,” says Vincent, making a flourishing gesture at one plate. “Fromage blanc. Grapefruit tartine, pear textures, peach and mango melba, crème anglaise with lime. Rice pudding. Or, if you prefer, we have a selection of freeze-dried fruits, in a sugar glaze.”

Logan chooses the sorbet, which makes Veronica narrow her eyes, since that’s the one she wanted. She accepts the rice pudding instead. Duncan selects the gooey white cheese: Lilly wrinkles her nose, and asks for port.

Veronica requests coffee, and Vincent brings her a tiny espresso cup, with foil-wrapped sugar cubes and a silver spoon. The coffee’s dark and rich, perfect with the dense, cinnamony pudding. She enjoys every mouthful, dreamy from calories and booze. 

“So what next?” Lilly asks, toying with her wineglass, as Vincent sets down a big platter of bonbons, and hands Logan a bright green beverage. “Dancing? Gambling? Burlesque show?”

“Let’s go back to the room,” Duncan says. “Watch movies, play pool. Logan and I surfed this morning. I’m tired.”

“What’s your vote, Veronica?” Logan asks, twirling his glass so the gemlike liquid catches the light. “Since you’re the accidental tourist. Public hedonism, or private?”

“Undecided,” she says. “But I don’t have the energy for dancing. Is that absinthe?”

“Chartreuse,” he corrects. “Made by monks. Want to try?”

She nods, and he hands the drink over. It’s an herbal flavor, like cough drops, kind of sweet. Weird, but not unpleasant. She passes it back. “You never choose the thing other people would,” she says.

“Other people are boring.” He tosses the drink back, rolls it in his mouth before swallowing. “Sometimes it’s fun to go off the beaten path.”

“Then let’s,” she decides, as Vincent sets a cup of amber-colored sorbet in front of her, and a red-ribboned box that must contain course 17. Maybe it’s the booze, making her reckless. Or maybe it’s the sense that these people have done everything possible, so often they’re tired of it: while adventure always seems to pass her by. “Lead me into temptation. I’ve spent my whole life behaving the socially acceptable way. I think it’s time for a change.”


	4. I'd Like to Hold You if I Could

CHAPTER FOUR

Veronica emerges from the restroom, successfully primped, to find Logan leaning one hip on a planter, texting: Lilly flirting up at the restaurant’s host, secreting a scrap of paper in her bra: and Duncan staring vacantly into space. Logan lifts his chin at her in greeting, tucks the phone away. “Limo’s out front,” he says, straightening and smiling down. “Ready?”

She nods, and he smacks Duncan on the arm to reboot him, jerks his head at Lilly. “What happened to your car?” Veronica asks, as they stroll towards what she assumes is the exit.

“We left it in the hotel garage, when we went back to change.” He bobs his eyebrows at her. “Why drink and drive when you can drink and RIDE?”

“They’re not gonna renew your Bad Boy license if you keep acting responsible!” she tosses over her shoulder, as Lilly links arms with her, tugs her ahead.

He laughs. “Maybe if I succeed in corrupting you, I’ll earn it back.”

“Dream on,” Lilly calls, smirking. “Veronica’s essentially incorruptible. She flosses every night, and she won’t even cut class for Casey Gant in a Speedo.”

Veronica wants to protest, but she’d be playing into their hands. “And SPEAKING OF my angelic goodness,” she says, instead, “I need to call my dad. Logan, hand over your fully charged and functional phone.”

He saunters up beside her, long legs casually closing the distance, tucks the phone in her palm. “Tomorrow we’ll buy a charger,” he says in her ear, like he’s whispering something dirty. “I’ll lower myself to visit Radio Shack, but only because it’s you.” Then he skips ahead, out the automatic door, and opens the limo with a Court-at-Versailles bow.

Veronica dials her dad’s number as she climbs in, then sits, self-conscious, while the rest of them stare at her. She listens while it rings.

“Keith Mars,” her father says, picking up just as she’s lost hope. His voice is gruff with exhaustion: she realizes, guiltily, that it’s the middle of the night. 

“Dad, it’s me,” she tells him, with an embarrassed smile for her audience. “You can call off the dogs. My car broke down, but I’m safe, and I’ll make it to Grandma’s tomorrow.”

“Where are you?” he demands, voice rising in pitch. “Is this Logan Echolls’ phone?”

Trust dad to already have the facts about the breakdown, she thinks. “Man, you are GOOD! You should go on cable access with the psychic act!”

Logan smiles at her, that faint, tempting quirk of the corner of his mouth, and for some reason, it makes her flustered. “Yes, Logan, Lilly and her brother ran across me on their way to Vegas, and gave me a ride. I’m staying with Lilly tonight. I’ll rent a car first thing in the morning.”

“Do you have enough money?” Veronica relaxes, as his voice loses the frantic pitch. “Do you need me to wire some?”

“Lilly says she’ll spot me,” Veronica assures him. “So we owe her a favor.”

“Tell her thanks, from me,” he says, sincere. “Be safe, kiddo, I’m glad you called. And get to bed! It’s past midnight, and Aunt Shirley has tickets for the Rat Pack Home Tour tomorrow.”

“What FUN! Expect me bright eyed and bushy tailed!” Veronica chirps. She closes the phone with a snap.

Logan accepts it, lounging down on his seat, his feet touching the bench on either side of hers. “Wow, I thought there’d be a pom-pom wave and ‘go team’ at the end of that conversation.”

“I,” she tells him, pointing a finger, “am daddy’s perfect princess. He sacrificed a LOT to give me a good childhood, and all he wants in return are straight A’s and adorable pep.”

“Mea culpa,” he smirks with lifted brows, pocketing the phone. “My father mostly required I not embarrass him in public. You can see how I’d get confused.”

“Mine just likes to be left alone, so he can screw his mistress in peace,” Lilly kicks in, checking her lipstick in a gem-studded compact. “So, where are we headed?”

“Someplace SECRET,” Logan drawls. “And nefarious. No pretty princesses admitted, I’m afraid. Only femmes fatales.”

“The lie was in the way I said it, not at all in what I said,” Veronica quotes, doing her best hard-boiled dame, fluttering her lashes. Logan laughs, a whoop of delight that echoes through the car. 

“If they hang you, I’ll always remember you,” he quotes back, and she’s caught by his gaze again. By the sense that, despite their surface differences, in some fundamental way, they connect.

The car rolls to a stop, and Logan sits up. “Brace yourself, Brigid,” he advises her. “Things are about to get interesting.”

They disembark in front of an Italian restaurant: nicely fitted out, but by no means extraordinary. Veronica glances at Lilly, surprised, and she shrugs, eyes twinkling. Duncan rolls his head, stretching his neck, then spends a while gazing blankly at the sky. Logan strides off through the doors, and curious, Veronica follows.

He’s chatting up the hostess when she enters, leaning forward to murmur, discreetly passing bills beneath his fist. The woman is angularly pretty, with a black-dyed, razor-cut bob: her grin back at him is slow and sultry. She beckons him over her shoulder to follow, twitching her skintight- black-satin-clad hips.

Logan collects the Kanes: and they’re led into a lounge area, with easy chairs and cocktail stands, rows of decorative books. Their guide shuts the door carefully, flashes a smirk, and pulls a lit sconce on the wall. The bookcase swings open, revealing stairs, going down. 

They pass into a dimly lit tunnel, as the case swings closed behind them. Then they turn a corner, and step into a scene straight from the Great Gatsby.

It’s a 20’s style speakeasy, ornate carved ceiling, bistro tables and chairs. The walls are flocked red paper with gold Chinoiserie, the clientele dressed to the nines: on the stage, a flapper croons about sad yesterdays, while a tuxedoed band keeps time.

The hostess leads them to a table, gestures for them to sit. She warns, with a coy glance at Logan, “Rules are posted on the menu. Follow them or you’re banned. Enjoy your evening.”

Logan blows her a kiss, and Duncan picks up the laminated card resting at his place. “No fistfights,” he reads. “No PDA. No credit cards, two hour maximum, no overloud displays of enthusiasm.” His weird blue gaze fastens on Logan: it would faze a less confident person. “All your favorite activities are forbidden. Why are we even here?”

“For real?” Lilly inspects her own menu, rolls her eyes. “This is LAME! You promised nefarious!”

Logan winks at her, as a curvy blonde in full Cigarette Girl regalia approaches. She’s styled in harlequin black and white, from her pillbox hat to her sky-high mary janes, and her tray holds a glass, pitcher and plate. 

She lays them out in front of Logan, ceremonious: the glass is half-full of neon-green liquid, the pitcher a white china teapot, and the plate contains sugar cubes and a slotted spoon. She smiles and flounces off, short taffeta skirt bouncing, and Veronica realizes why they came.

“It’s an ABSINTHE bar,” Logan elaborates, confirming her theory. He seems smug. “Veronica was curious.”

“Is absinthe even legal?” Veronica demands. “Because I’ve heard things about Vegas jail, and it doesn’t sound as fun as the Strip.”

“They lifted the ban last year,” he says, gently. “And it’s not a hallucinogen, so stop stressing. It’s just a very strong drink that’s also stimulating, like Red Bull and Everclear. You SIP it, slowly.” He sets the slotted spoon on top of the glass, arrays the sugar cubes across it, grins. “They used to make this green with toxic chemicals, that’s why the Impressionists tripped. Now they use plant dyes.”

He picks up the pitcher and pours a thin stream over the sugar, dissolving it. As it drizzles through the spoon, the absinthe turns opalescent white. He nudges the glass to the center of the table, flips and spreads his hands in a flamboyant arc. “There you go, Mars,” he says. “Your first temptation. Try it if you want. I’ll drink whatever you don’t.”

“Do they sell anything less…retro here?” Lilly asks, arching her brows suggestively.

“Hmmm. Well, this is what you’d call a law-abiding establishment,” Logan tells her. He keeps his gaze on Veronica, whose internal debate is visible. “But as the saying goes, I know a guy. Veronica’s the guest of honor this evening, though, so she gets to draw the line.”

“Can we not break the law?” Veronica asks, glancing up briefly. “No hookers, no drugs?”

“Well, hookers are, technically speaking, legal,” Logan says. “Because, Vegas. But fair enough. You can stick to artisanal cocktails for one night, Lils. The lining of your nose will thank you.”

Lilly sighs, loudly, but flags down the waitress, and orders a Moscow Mule. Duncan asks for cognac, some obscurely named reserve that makes the server lift her brows.

Veronica picks up her absinthe, toasts Logan surreptitiously with it, tries a sip.

It’s cold and sweet, with a pleasant smell of fennel, and delicious, like so many dangerous things. “Licorice!” she says, surprised. Takes a bigger drink.

“Mmm,” he agrees. “Anise, fennel and wormwood. It kills PARASITES.”

“You should keep some in a flask. Sprinkle it on the paparazzi that follow you around,” she says, and he barks a laugh, like he can’t help himself.

“Veronica, I’m surprised at you,” he chides, folding his hands with mock severity. “Killing is WRONG.”

She snaps her fingers. “I KNEW there was a tenth commandment!”

He shakes his head at her. “Actually, it’s the first. And you’re flirting again. I can tell, because I’m definitely not drunk this time.”

“Just conceited,” she allows, taking one more icy, lovely sip. “I’m simply holding up my end of the witty repartee.”

“Logan’s ARROGANT,” Lilly corrects, accepting her cocktail without looking at the waitress. “He’s never had to cope with being poor, or undesirable. Ask him if he’s ever hit on someone who’s turned him down.”

“Has anyone ever turned YOU down?” Veronica wonders. Deflecting the question, because she’s fairly sure of the answer.

Lilly smiles, the naughtiest smile Veronica’s ever seen. “Not for long.”

“I had a crush on a guy named Leo D’Amato, when I was sixteen,” Veronica reminisces, pushing the absinthe towards Logan to indicate that she’s done. “He was a deputy, back when Dad was Sheriff. He had dark curls and dimples, and sang for a band. He used to be a STRIPPER.”

Logan turns the glass in his hands. Puts his mouth directly over Veronica’s lipstick print, sips. “And this paragon of manhood didn’t want you?”

She shrugs. “Of course he did. He made me tapes of his performances, stood too close. My dad wasn’t having it, though. He insisted on a talk in his office, with the door shut, one day after I visited the station. From that point on, Leo left the room when I walked in.” She sighs, fake-wistfully, and Logan’s face contorts with the effort of not laughing. “I could have had it all…covers of ‘Young Girl’, dedicated to me from a grungy stage…stolen magic moments in the back of his Trans Am. But ours was a star-crossed love.”

“I had one of those,” Duncan says unexpectedly, brooding into his mostly-empty glass. Killing the moment, as is his wont. “I thought we’d be together forever. But now she’s gone, and instead I get a big blue pill for breakfast, every day.”

Veronica considers asking what happened, but the bleak look on Lilly’s face deters her. 

“There was a girl,” Logan says, from his careless sprawl, like he understands her dilemma. “Pretty blonde cheerleader with brown doe eyes, every future politician’s virgin dream. It’s the typical teen melodrama: boy meets girl, both fall in love. Boy’s friend turns out to be a sociopath, blows up the field trip bus with girl inside. Girl survives, but spends the next three years in a coma, before eventually dying. Boy’s parents medicate him into zombiedom, so he won’t make a scene.”

“Boy shuts down,” Lilly adds, a little sadly. “Decides never to try again.”

“Duncan, I’m so sorry!” Veronica tells him. “I had no idea.”

He smiles, the first time she’s seen him do so, but doesn’t look at her. He stares into his ounce of cognac like it holds important secrets. With the elegant stage set behind him, and his face half-cast in shadow, he reminds her strongly of Claude Raines, coveting Ingrid Bergman. “She looked beautiful, even at the end,” he whispers. “Like a sleeping princess, her hair spread out on the pillow. I kissed her goodbye, before they took her away.”

Veronica’s eyes meet Logan’s. She’s not sure if it shows, but this all seems so Wuthering Heights: she’s strangely appalled. He gives his head the slightest shake. Whether he’s disagreeing with her interpretation, or warning her off the conversation, she’s not sure.

“They called us the Fabulous Four,” Lilly says, dreamily, lifting her glass to study it. She tilts her head, and her ponytail spills across her shoulder, earrings catching the light. “Meg and Duncan were the golden ones, Logan and I were in charge. All Neptune High loved or feared us. Often both at once.”

“09’ers don’t ‘love’, generally speaking,” Logan corrects, making air quotes to emphasize. “They COVET. When they suck up to you, they want an in, either to attach, leech-like, or to take you down.”

“Are you saying you didn’t love me?” Lilly asks, flashing a coy smile. “You said the words pretty often.”

“Mmm, so did you. And never once meant them. There’s a lesson to be learned from that, somewhere.”

“Hey,” Veronica interjects, “It’s Thanksgiving. Can’t the Pilgrims and Wampanoags live in peace for one evening?”

“Have YOU ever said 'I love you', and believed it?” Logan asks, spearing her with a look. “To a boyfriend, I mean. Daddy dearest doesn’t count.”

She gives her head a minute shake. Troy didn’t take that from her, at least.

“I rest my case.” He tosses back the rest of the absinthe, smiles at her: the kind of smile that feels profound, but is probably too much booze. “When TINKERBELL can’t buy that love is real, it’s probably time to quit trying.”

There’s silence at the table, and the words of the singer filter through, slurred and tearful. “Oh, I wish I had someone to love me…someone to call me their own…oh, I wish I had someone to live with, ‘cause I’m tired of living alone…”

Logan slaps his hands down, pushes his chair back. “Since you’ve declared your opposition to dancing,” he tells Veronica, as he stands, “Lils? They’re playing our song.”

He extends a hand to her, all charm and no affection: she smirks, tucks hers in it. He twirls her, once, twice, three times, then leads her to the floor, a hand on the small of her back.

They couple up like they’ve had practice, spinning easily across the parquet. Veronica puts her chin in her hand, watching with false nonchalance, privately feeling gut-punched. 

She liked Lilly when they met: she was pleased to score her as a roommate. Lilly’s flighty and damaged, attracts unsuitable guys. Parties instead of studying, spends money like water. But she’s clean and non-judgmental, rarely home: and she’s unfailingly friendly and generous, when she IS around. In contrast Veronica loathed Logan. His constant slacking presence by Lilly’s side infuriated her, with its attendant rekindling and flame-outs, as did his smarmy-flirting at everything that moved. His relentless taunting of Veronica always felt sexual, and her response to it embarrassed her.

But one evening into this strange adventure, and everything has flipped. She feels JEALOUS, watching their Rich Brat Mating Dance. She feels ANGRY with LILLY. She wants his arms around HER, while he spins her in dizzy circles, and laughs down into her eyes. Wishes he’d make her forget why bad boys are bad news, as per Grandma Mars’ Wealthy Bastard diatribe. What right does he have to diss her so rudely, only for admitting she’s never been in love? Don’t guys WANT to be the first, to make a girl feel that way? Shouldn’t he be PLEASED, that she’s never even…

“So you really don’t dance?” Duncan asks, and Veronica shrieks, presses her palm to her heart. Damn it, why does she never remember he’s sitting there?

“Sure I do,” she says, eyes glinting. If Wallace were here, he’d know trouble was brewing. She guesses it’s a good thing he’s not. “Want to take me for a whirl?”

Duncan holds out a hand, and she slaps hers into it. He leads her onto the floor. She grits her teeth, lets him fold her in, and great. Now her clothes smell like Polo cologne.

He moves like he’s hosting an uncomfortable stick, and he’s larger than she realized. Maneuvering him around the floor proves a challenge: she’s a tugboat, hauling the Titanic. She tilts him towards Logan and Lilly, dances determinedly, but he’s got a different agenda.

“You look like her, you know,” Duncan muses, and yes, Veronica realizes, flesh CAN actually crawl. “Like Meg. She was a natural blonde, and delicate, same as you. I could fit my hand all the way around her neck.”

Veronica makes a noise of both effort and disgust, manages to engineer a collision, and then she’s spinning and spinning. When her head clears, Logan is her partner.

“That was SMOOTH,” she says, admiring. He twirls her beneath his arm, tucks her close.

“Like you know the meaning of the word. I hate to break it to you, Veronica, but your dance floor maneuvers were…not subtle.”

“I had to wrestle a rhinoceros, basically,” she admits, and collapses in giggles. She doesn’t feel drunk, though, which means absinthe is sneaky.

“I’m flattered,” he says. Spins her out, rolls her back. “That you’d go all Crocodile Dundee, just to cut in. If this is how you treat every guy you loathe, it’s no wonder you were prom queen.”

“Please,” she says. “You were just too clumsy to keep away. And for the last time, I was NEVER prom queen.”

“Lady in waiting?” he murmurs, into her hair. “Best smile? Most likely to twist unsuspecting suckers around her finger, and use them without mercy?”

“Huh,” she says. “That last one rings a faint bell.”

“I’ll bet.” He dips her, and holds her there for a moment, gazing down at her face. Pulls her back up, into a turn. “It’s funny. You look the opposite of dangerous. But even Lils can’t dent you.”

“Unsinkable Veronica Mars, that’s me,” she chirps, and he shakes his head.

“You had to be the roommate of my poisonous ex,” he says softly, tucking her a little closer. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”

“IS she your ex?” Veronica asks, and he sighs.

“Mostly,” he says. “Is she your friend?”

“Mostly,” she parrots.

“If you didn’t hate me, we’d have a dilemma,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Right?” She tucks her cheek against his chest. “Guess it’s a good thing I do.”

He dances her in a little circle: she’s intensely aware of the heat of his body, through layers of linen and wool. He feels lithe beneath her hands, tensile, like he’s perpetually ready to spring, and she loves that. His strength, his alertness, his refusal to back down. She breathes in deeply, absorbing his sand-and-sea scent, and imagines she really is a flapper, with nerve to burn. Dreams he’s the dissipated playboy with a title and old money, romancing her in topcoat and tails.

Her Astaire/Rogers fantasy is shattered by shouting.

Veronica eyes snap open, startled: the yeller’s Duncan, face red with rage, spewing profanities at a middle-aged guy in suspenders. His victim’s no kind of threat, soft all over and maybe 5’6” on a good day, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Duncan advances, arms flailing, practically frothing at the mouth. Logan mutters, “Fuck!” and pulls Veronica away from the epicenter.

“Grab Lilly,” he tells her, hands on her shoulders, uncharacteristically serious. “Get to a safe corner. I’ll extract the Donut, and then we’ll run for the car.”

“What the HELL?” she demands, as Duncan shoves the guy’s date to the ground, takes a swing. “He’s totally lost it!”

Logan casts a beseeching look at the heavens. “What do you think the blue pills are for?”

XXXXX

They’re in the limo again, crawling along through nightlife traffic. Lilly’s enjoying straight gin from the minibar. Logan’s rhythmically flexing his hand, dabbing at a contusion over his eye with Duncan’s gin-soaked pocket square. Duncan’s staring silently at nothing, producing the occasional moan or single tear. And Veronica’s glaring at Duncan with her arms crossed, like she fears he might attack.

“We seriously need to fit him with a shock collar,” Logan says on a sigh, echoing Veronica’s sentiments. He slumps against the seat beside her. “That’s the third time in five months he’s gone rage-blind.”

“It was just one of his spells.” Lilly waves her hand dismissively, but she’s shaking as she swallows booze. “He probably talked about Meg too much, and that set him off.”

She shoots Veronica a reproachful look, and Veronica squares up to argue: but Logan stops her with a palm to the sternum. “Easy, tiger,” he says. “One fistfight per night, that’s my limit.”

“Whatever,” Lilly drawls, draining her glass. “At least he livened up the evening. That place was SERIOUSLY over-hyped, Echolls. CELESTE would have enjoyed it.”

“Hey, in my defense, it’s got a VERY racy Follies Revue at 2:00, a back-room, high-stakes poker game, and a bartender with a world-class pharmacopeia in his gym bag. But Ronnie here mandated no drugs, hookers or illegal activities, so that limited our options.”

“Don’t call me Ronnie,” Veronica snaps, sullenly eyeing Duncan. “Or tiger. Also, when my dad finds out about this—and you can bet he WILL? I am so dead.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Logan asks sardonically. “You’re an adult who doesn’t live at home, and you pay your own expenses. It’s not like he can ground you, or take away your ten-speed.”

“I work for him,” she retorts. “He can fire me.”

“Oh, like he would.” Logan rolls his eyes, fiddling with the mini-bar, and extracts a tiny bottle of Jack. He twists the cap off, drinks it down. “You’re daddy’s perfect princess, right? I’ve seen this on TV. He’ll give you the ‘I’m very disappointed’ speech, at WORST, and then buy you an ice cream sundae.”

“Oh, of course. Just like Mr. Cleaver. And what would YOUR dad do? Take your yacht away?”

He shrugs. His smile glints, showing teeth. “Put me in the hospital, most likely. Bad publicity like this usually led to broken ribs. Dear old dad was fond of KICKING.”

Veronica’s eyes widen, and she sits back. She looks at Lilly, who looks away.

“Well,” she says, gaze dropping to her hands. “Suddenly the ice pick makes a lot more sense.”

Logan laughs, and she turns to study him. Takes his right hand in hers, uses the pocket square to clean his abraded knuckles.

“I’ve had enough fun for the evening,” she says, folding the little cloth. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Logan presses the intercom button, and relays directions to the driver. Lilly tucks her bootless feet under her, rolls the cold drink across her forehead. Veronica leans against the headrest and closes her eyes, curving her palm around Logan’s forearm in a silent show of support. His muscles flex at the contact, but he doesn’t move her hand.


	5. Even Bad Wolves Can Be Good

CHAPTER FIVE

The hotel lobby is just as whacked out as the parking circle. It’s mostly marble: floors, pillars, even walls, patterned in a beige/black diamond parquet. The furniture is rococo, the chairs red velvet, the chandeliers gaudy and plentiful, and the ceiling painted black. Every available surface (including the ceiling) is hung with classical oil-paint nudes. 

“Hotel Hieronymous Bosch,” Veronica mutters to herself, as she holds the door open.

Logan and Lilly lead Duncan inside, each of them with an arm tucked through his elbow. They laugh and joke, practiced patter like game show hosts, as they lead him past the desk to the elevator. It would seem sweet, the way they gently care for their catatonic friend: but Veronica’s pretty sure Duncan’s one fugue state away from a Hannibal Lecter muzzle.

She follows them into the elevator, presses the close-doors button. Logan slumps into the corner, gazing up at the ceiling. “You need to call Wiedman,” he says, presumably to Lilly, since Veronica has no clue who ‘Wiedman’ is.

“When we get to the room,” she tells him. “Elevators have cameras.”

“Video, no sound,” Veronica contributes, and they both turn to look at her. “Usually.”

Logan cocks his head, contemplative, Lilly nods, and they share a glance that says they’ve known each other since childhood. Then the bell dings, and they hustle Duncan out in tandem, like it’s a dance they know by heart.

They stop by a glossy black door, and Logan asks, “You need help getting him settled?” As if he doesn’t plan to go in.

Lilly arches a brow. “Why? You want to head back out on the town?”

He shakes his head. “Veronica asked to see the bar,” he lies. “And I'd like a bottle of whiskey to wash down my sleeping pills, in true Old Hollywood fashion.”

“Ooh, a drunk prom queen and two comatose men!” Lilly croons, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Just when I thought my evening couldn’t get better!”

“Back in five,” Logan says, palm out to demonstrate, donning an expression of angelic innocence that nobody sane would trust. Lilly sighs and nods, leads Duncan inside, and Logan herds Veronica efficiently down the hall.

“We’re not really going to the bar, right?” she asks, and he smirks at her, pressing the down button, drumming fingers against his thigh. 

“As if,” he says. “I rented another suite when I checked in. I figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in the same room as Duncan, and that was BEFORE he had a seizure.”

“You’re not wrong,” she admits. “But what about Lilly? I’m uncomfortable leaving her alone with him, if she’s not safe.”

“He’s just gonna stare at the wall for a day, maybe two,” Logan tells her, watching his reflection in the gold-mirrored door. “And Wiedman, that’s the Kanes’ security guy, will be here by morning. He’ll cart Donut off for a two week stay at the happy home, make all our legal troubles disappear. And Lils can waste the holiday on her European rendezvous. Meanwhile, you and I will make like bandits at dawn’s early light, and I’ll get you back to Palm Springs before your Aunt shakes off her hangover.”

“You don’t miss much,” she observes, and he chuckles, waving for her to precede him as the doors slide open. 

“Missing much: always a mistake,” he says, leaning against the elevator wall with devastating style. 

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too.” She curls her hands around the rail. “But they say ignorance is bliss.”

“Mmm.” He jerks his head to the right and clicks his tongue, a negating gesture. “Ignorance is dangerous. Bliss is safe.”

“And here I thought your whole relationship with Lilly was based on bliss NOT being safe!”

“Wow, how to answer THAT?” The elevator dings, and he presses a palm against the door to hold it open, while she walks past. “I was too young to know any better, when we first became…entwined. And I was too fucked up to EXPECT any better, by the time she was done with me.”

“Come on, that’s a little harsh,” she chides, inspecting a painting of a Madonna and child, hanging crooked on the hallway wall. “I’ve lived with Lilly for 3 months, and sure, she’s damaged. But she’s not EVIL.”

“You wanna go back over and settle in for the evening, then?” he asks, with that supercilious face he makes, right before he lands a zinger. “Now that you owe her a ‘favor’? I can guarantee you’re in for more TEMPTATION in her suite than you probably know how to handle.”

“What's THAT supposed to mean?” she scoffs. “Is she gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse? Send me to swim with the fishes?”

“You really don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head at her. “Savvy as you are, you have some pretty big blind spots.”

“Get what?!?” she demands. “That she wants me beholden? I get that fine. My question is why?”

“She wants you to owe her because she wants to DO you,” he whispers, into her ear, the heat of his breath making her shiver. “Or more likely she wants ME to do you, while she watches, and gives instructions. Because she knows you won’t go for it the other way, at least the first time.”

Veronica stops, and he spins, hands in pockets, surveying her sardonically. “Are you serious?” she demands. “And are you saying you’d go ALONG with this?”

He shrugs. “What I’d do doesn’t matter. YOU wouldn’t. Hence the heroic rescue.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she confirms, starting forward again with determined strides. “And the fact that you’d even consider letting her use you that way makes me really sad for you.”

He chuckles. “You have clearly never spent private time with Hollywood insiders.”

“No, I mostly play fetch on the beach with my dog, when I’m not helping my dad solve cases. My hobby is flying model airplanes my best friend builds, not navigating depressing orgies.”

He snorts. “They’re better than hanging out alone in my mansion on holidays, chugging Jack. Being glad my dad got stabbed to death with an icepick, and sorry my mom jumped off a bridge.”

“Can’t you volunteer at a soup kitchen or something?” she asks. “Or alternatively, don’t you have any normal friends?”

“Well, there’s you,” he says, with a half-smile. “Not sure anybody would call you normal, but you seem to have values and compassion, at least.”

She steals a glance at him. He’s looking down at the ground, like this is a nonchalant statement with no meaning, but somehow she doubts that’s the case. “ARE we friends?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“Do you want to be?” He looks up at her from under his brow, with surprising intensity.

“Is that why you kidnapped me?” she demands, instead of answering. “Why you drove right past the Palm Springs exit without dropping me off? Because you wanted someone you liked, at least a little bit, to share your holiday dinner?”

He stares at her, unwavering, the half-smile struggling not to grow. “I admit nothing.”

“I would have invited you guys to stay,” she says, softly. “We could have made turkey and cranberry sandwiches, and choked back shots of Aunt Shirley’s Crème de Menthe.”

“Veronica, I’ve met your dad,” he scoffs, covering the momentary softening of his eyes with sarcasm. “He knows what I want from you. He’d have spent the whole time glowering at me and Duncan, caressing his handgun.”

“And what exactly DO you want from me?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips.

He grins. “Whatever you’re willing to give.”

She wrinkles her nose. She’s starting to think she’d give anything he asked for, and under the circumstances, that won’t do. “So who did you ditch?” she asks, changing the subject. “After you snatched me from the bosom of my family, and fed me pomegranates, I mean? Your dinner reservation was for four.”

“A date who’s paid by the hour,” he quips, and she shoves him. He smirks. “I have a friend who dances in the Cirque du Soleil. We hang out sometimes, when I’m in town. She’s a CONTORTIONIST.” He punctuates this with a toothy leer, and she shakes her head at him, trying not to laugh.

“And Lilly doesn’t mind? No, of course she doesn’t. I take it your friend is flexible in more ways than one.”

“Many women are, when propositioned by Echollses and Kanes.” He doesn’t look disturbed by what he’s saying, but his tone is acid.

“You know, it’s tragic, really,” she murmurs, tracing a finger along the wainscoting. “You grew up in Hollywood having each wish fulfilled, and it deludes you into believing everyone wants you.”

“Not everyone. Just the occasional circus performer, world-weary heiress, and you.” He smiles, registering her expression. “But come on, it’s not like you can help yourself. I mean LOOK at me.”

He trails a hand suggestively down his waistcoat, and laughs when she smacks him. “Suite’s right over there,” he says, gesturing with his head. He pulls a key card from a hidden pocket in his coat, holds it out. “I’ll need you to bring me my bag, if you’re not willing to share.”

“And just what would sharing involve?” she asks, swiping the card. She pushes the door open with her back, gestures for him to enter.

“Hmmm.” He plants a hand on the door, above her head, and holds it while she walks inside. Lets it swing shut behind him, adjusting his coat by the lapels. “Well, as I see it, we have three options.”

“Which are?” She spins in a slow circle, pulling pins from her hair. The room's black—she senses a theme—both carpet and walls, with three red velvet sofas, and the requisite naked paintings. 

“You could kick me out,” he says, flopping backwards onto the couch without looking, crossing his feet on the coffee table. “In which case I’d book a suite at a different hotel, and call you in the morning.”

“You wouldn’t stay with Lilly?” She wanders over to inspect a lamp: it’s a naked flapper, strategically holding two lit globes. “Duncan mentioned a pool table, so I’m sure there’s also a couch.”

“If I slept over there, I’d wake up at three to find her riding me,” he says. “Like a succubus. And this evening’s been challenging enough already, without having that argument again.”

“What’s option two?” She sits on the back of the couch beside him, spilling pins into an ashtray shaped like lips.

“I could stay in your second bedroom,” he offers, watching her. “And you could lock your door. Assuming you trust me not to huff and puff and blow it down, that would be pretty convenient.”

“Oooh!” She wanders towards a doorway, casts a look at him over her shoulder. “Do I win a prize, if I guess option number three?”

He folds his arms along the back of the couch, lays his chin atop them. “Depends what you classify as a prize.”

“Well,” she says, tapping a finger against her lower lip, casting her eyes up in thought. “I’m really not impressed by money.”

“What a coincidence!” he says. “Neither am I!”

“And smooth operators looking to scam always leave me cold.” She walks through, into bedroom one: amazingly, it’s black and red, and features an eight foot naked painting of the devil. She turns and falls backwards onto the big black four-poster bed, arms outspread, bounces. Smiles up at her reflection, because of course there’s a mirror on the ceiling. 

“Well that’s disappointing.” He appears in the doorway, bracing a hand on each side of the frame. “What if I promise not to be smooth?”

She shakes her head. “You were born smooth. Try again.”

“I could promise not to operate?” he suggests, easing closer. He wraps an arm around the bedpost, gazing down at her.

She fake-shivers. “OK, having a flashback to that kidney-removal urban fantasy. Strike two.”

“Wow, tough audience.”He’s smiling, just a little, like he thinks she’s adorable, and the expression in his eyes is soft. “What if I admitted I want more than a scam?”

She lifts up on her elbows. “Then my mace stays in my pocket. For now.”

“Oh, that’s MACE in your pocket.” He toes his shoes off, one and then the other, flops onto the bed beside her. She bounces again. “I thought you were just gl…”

“DON’T say it,” she warns. “I’m not a fan of terrible jokes, either.”

“What DOES impress you?” he asks, and he seems serious. He crooks an elbow, props his chin in his hand.

“Kindness and sincerity,” she allows, “traits you pretend not to possess, but do. Cleverness, a sense of humor. And of course, every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

“Hmmm, imagine that,” he says. “I might have a prize for you, after all.”

“REALLY.” She relaxes back, supine. “Would I be able to sample this product before accepting? Or do I have to sign the time-share documents right out of the gate?”

“What kind of sample are we talking about?” he asks. “Because I own some swampland in Florida…”

“A kiss,” she clarifies, gazing up at her reflection in the mirror. “Suppose I asked you to kiss me, and nothing else?” 

His jaw shifts against his hand, like he’s making himself comfortable. “If you asked me to,” he says, “I would.”

“You wouldn’t push for more?” she wonders, turning her head to look at him. “Since we’re staying in the same room?”

“I’d stop,” he confirms, the corner of his mouth curling up. “If you asked me to.”

She lurches forward and makes contact, pressing her lips chastely to his. His are soft, the lower one plush and full, and he smells amazing, like blue skies after rain. He lets her, passive under the advance, but the intensity in his gaze triples. She kisses him again.

He opens for her, and she tastes him slowly, faint burn of bourbon and the flavor of lust. Then his tongue twines with hers, sleek and confident, and he tips her back onto the bed, rolls atop.

He’s heavy, even braced on his elbows, and very warm, all muscle and sinew beneath translucent cotton. He kisses like she’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted—not at all rough, but so passionate, so thorough, she feels consumed. She moans, deep in her throat, and he rolls his hips into position between her legs.

He’s half hard, and it’s intimidating: she thinks, of course you’d be irresistibly made for this. Like you don’t have enough reasons already to be conceited.

He eases his mouth away from hers. She gasps for air as he sucks her throat, nipping at the skin, making her wet. “Mmmmm,” he says, nuzzling her ear, rocking slowly against her like they have nothing but time. She runs her hands down his back, delicate cloth, hard flesh, and she wants to take a bite. She wants to make him lose control.

“Oh,” she says, curling her palms around his biceps, and kisses him again: this time it’s hungry, eager. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, voice rough, and she nods. She thinks he’ll go straight for her breasts, the way Troy always did. But instead he curves his big hands around her ass and rolls, so she’s on top.

“You’re in charge,” he says, stroking up to her waist, fingers almost able to circle it wholly. “Do with me what you will.”

She laughs and pushes his shirt up: when her nails scrape his nipples he groans, completely unselfconscious. So she does it again. He begins to thrust at her, moving her against him in counterpoint: she lets her head fall back and enjoys it, just a teasing pressure through two layers of fabric.

She scratches lightly down his midline, into his navel, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth falling open. She bends, runs her tongue over his hard-pebbled nipple, and his breath comes faster.

“Let me see you,” he says, fixing her with his dark, fathomless gaze. She unbuttons her coat, protection from lust, and casts it off. Lifts the gauzy black blouse and camisole over her head. She’s not much more than an A cup: but his hands slide up, spanning her torso, thumbs circling, and she can tell he thinks she’s beautiful.

“Come here,” he says, and she bends to kiss him. This time he winds her hair around his fist. His other hand slides into her trousers, palming her ass, kneading.

“God,” he says, when they break apart, panting. “Veronica. Let me go down on you. I want to watch you come.”

She huffs a laugh. She hasn’t been a virgin for years, has had sex hundreds of times: but this is so unlike her previous experiences, she almost feels she’s starting over. “Yes,” she says, and he’s unbuttoning her slacks before the sibilant ceases.

He flips them again, kneels to strip cloth efficiently from her legs, giving her the slightly evil smirk that always makes her damp. “Your clothes, too,” she says, because she wants to see him, and the smirk turns into a grin as he obliges.

He’s muscled, tanned, and incongruously, freckled: his sparse body hair has a reddish cast. He’s not embarrassed by the way she stares—in fact, his grin turns taunting—and his hands run lightly, tickling, up her thighs, pushing them wide.

“This is the part,” he murmurs, watching his thumbs trace patterns on her skin, “where I eat you up. Hold onto the headboard, you’re gonna thrash.”

He shoots her a quick, teasing glance, then presses his whole face into her: he kisses her sex the way he kissed her mouth, as if he’ll never get enough. She gasps, and grabs the headboard, making noises that barely sound human as she writhes against his tongue. He slides two fingers into her, and she comes so hard her vision blurs white. He keeps going.

She gazes up at herself in the mirror above the bed, pale flesh, red spread, black headboard. Her hands drift down to twine in his hair, her calves lock behind his neck, and she’s past shame. She can almost believe he’s something supernatural, his bronze curls brushing her groin, his rippling-muscle shoulders wider than her hips: something that transforms whatever it touches. She watches him consume her, ardent and intent. She lets go and falls, farther off the path than she’s ever gone.

He looms over her, wiping his mouth, hands her a condom he’s tossed on the bedspread. Giving her the choice. She tears it open with her teeth, rolls it on him, and he pulls her astride his lap, eases inside.

“Oh God, oh God,” he says, gritting his teeth, and she moans and rocks slowly downward, because she wants to make it last. “Jesus, Veronica, harder.” He goes after her nipples, not quite biting, and she takes him deep, sealed to her cervix, hot as flame.

He tilts her onto her back, grips the spread in his fist as he fucks her. She hangs on, and it’s good, so good, a full-body kiss. He comes with a grunt and keeps thrusting, as if even that’s not enough: reaches between them and squeezes her clit until she follows, contracting around him as if he was made to please her.

And maybe he was, she thinks, as they collapse sideways with a sigh. Maybe he’s what she’s been dreaming of, all along, even though she didn’t think good girls should.


	6. I Ought To Walk With You For a Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to disdainfullady! IDK if you read this story, but you said you wanted banter for a present. So this chapter is extra-bantery. :-)

CHAPTER SIX

She drifts slowly awake the next morning, and finds him watching her. 

He’s on his side, elbow tucked beneath his head, hand in the small of her back. His bronze lashes half-shield his eyes, luxurious sweep that turns them topaz in the pale morning sun. His face is contemplative, serious.

“Regrets?” he asks, voice sleep-roughened.

She casts her mind back over the events of the day, does an inventory of her body and feelings, but there’s no angst or guilt. Mostly, she just wants to climb him again. “Not a one.”

He smiles and kisses her, pulling her leg over his hip. Caresses its length. And she’s so down with his plan, not even morning breath repels her.

XXXXX

“Ugh, this room is PERVY,” she says, when they’re done, and panting side-by-side. Gazing up at their nude, sweaty selves in the mirror, holding hands. 

“I know, isn’t it GREAT?” He kisses her forehead and hops up. Lifts his hands, palms out: spreads his arms, as if setting a scene. “It’s like a Victorian brothel, with the décor and the mirrors and the wacky paintings. They keep old-timey booklets of spanking porn in the drawers, instead of Bibles.” He does a ‘who knew?’ gesture, to punctuate this outrageous statement, winks at her, and heads for the bathroom. A minute later, the shower turns on.

She stretches, luxuriant, amazed by how soft the bed is. And then, even though she’s completely anti-spanking, she can’t resist checking the nightstand drawer.

She spots her suitcase under the bed, drags it out to retrieve clothes. She’s comparing the merits of a red t-shirt and a green one when she hears a muffled thump from the living room. She yanks the bedspread off the floor and wraps herself in it, grabs a coat hanger (the best available weapon). Cracks open the door, and peeks through.

There’s a man in the suite she’s never met, and he’s made himself comfortable.

She shuts herself in and locks up, gathers her clothes. Trips over the bedspread, tosses it angrily aside, barges into the bathroom. 

Logan’s in the shower, head bent forward, washing his hair. He tilts his jaw to look at her, squinting through the soap: then grins the dirtiest grin she’s ever seen. Between that smile, and all the wet muscles, little bubbly rivulets trickling between, he looks like the personification of sin.

She smiles back, as her anatomy dampens and tightens, and then she remembers they’ve got company. “Logan,” she asks, “why is there a seven-foot-tall man in a trench coat and fedora, reading “The Economist’ on our couch?”

“Wiedman,” he decides, ducking his head under the spray to rinse clean. He pulls back and shakes the water off, like a dog, closes the tap with a snap. “I told you he was coming.”

He climbs out of the tub and approaches, grabbing up a towel, with which he nonchalantly rubs his hair. Her brain shorts out again. He’s like a foot taller than her, when they’re both nude, and it is SO HOT.

His mouth quirks as he gazes down at her, and he says, “Yes, to all of it. But we have to get rid of Clarence first. He won’t go away until he’s had his say.”

She nods and bends to don her underwear, but he takes it from her hands. He kneels at her feet, to help her step in, then leans forward and licks between her legs. She groans, head falling back with a thunk as he works deeper, and he says, “Fuck it, he can wait ten minutes.”

He grabs his wallet off the counter and extracts a condom, somehow manages to get it on one-handed while he caresses her with the other. Then he lifts her up against the door and goes in, and both of them come within the first ninety seconds.

She starts to laugh, because this whole adventure has been insane. He snickers into her shoulder and says, “So much for self-control.”

“Go put lots of clothes on,” she advises, patting his back. “And quit shooting me naughty smiles. I’m already in hot water for missing the Rat Pack Home Tour, and God knows what the fallout from last night will be.”

“Nothing,” he murmurs, kissing the spot below her ear. She growls at him, and he sets her down and dances away, laughing. “Wait and see. Wiedman never fails.”

He pulls on his jeans, commando (like THAT’S not going to mess with her mind), and adds a thin, black, long-sleeved t-shirt with a dark grey tribal print: it clings to his shoulders and chest, falls loosely below. He turns on the faucet and squirts a handful of shaving cream, smiles at her in the mirror with fake innocence. She shakes her head at him. “You seriously need a warning label,” she says, and hops into the shower.

Five minutes later, they enter the living room, where their unexpected visitor has moved on to ‘Mother Jones’.

“Clarence!” Logan greets him, mock-jovial. He glances at the watch he’s buckling, sprawls backwards on the couch. “9:43, and you’ve already tidied away the Kanes. Impressive.”

“Mr. Echolls,” the visitor says, deadpan, folding his magazine neatly. “Miss Mars.”

“Complete stranger committing illegal trespass,” she greets him. She settles beside Logan, arms crossed, and he shoots her an amused glance.

Wiedman surveys them, immobile and composed. “All parties involved in last night’s altercation have been persuaded to withdraw charges,” he says. “Mr. Kane will be vacationing elsewhere for the next month. Miss Kane has elected to remain in Las Vegas. She is unaware of your whereabouts, and extremely curious as to your plans.”

“I’ll bet.” Logan smiles, blandly. “Veronica and I are halfway to Palm Springs as we speak. I’m restoring her to the bosom of her family. She’ll catch up with Lilly on Monday, when she makes it back to Hearst.”

Wiedman nods. “And you?”

“I’ll call,” Logan says. “No doubt she’ll be waiting by the phone.”

Wiedman’s mouth twitches, like he wants to respond, but is too well-trained. “Have a pleasant drive." He produces a business card, holds it out to Veronica. “My number,” he explains. “Should further complications arise.”

She takes it, and Wiedman glides smoothly out of the room, magazines tucked beneath his arm. “I’m disappointed,” she tells Logan, as the door clicks shut. “I thought he’d vanish in a puff of smoke.”

He sniffs. “I DO smell brimstone!” he says, and she can’t help but laugh.

XXXXX

“Who chooses The Original Pancake House for breakfast, then doesn’t order pancakes?” Veronica demands, tossing back half her grapefruit juice in one gulp. She’s not hung over, amazingly, but she IS really thirsty. “That’s like visiting a strip club and telling the dancers to cover up.”

Logan quirks sardonic brows at her, sips his espresso. “Who chugs sour fruit juice on an empty stomach?” he retorts. “After last night’s hedonism? I think you’re secretly made of iron.”

She shrugs. “I enjoy things that are bitter and complicated. If I were you, I wouldn’t complain.”

“And I’m not a fan of sugar,” he says, settling back with a smirk. He cradles the little cup between his giant hands, and yes she IS having tingles again. “I prefer spice.”

She stares at him, twisting her napkin, trying to put his puzzle pieces together. His smirk intensifies. “Want to find another hotel?” he suggests. “Take a longer shower?”

“Quit deflecting,” she says. “You’re my lab specimen, and I’m studying you.”

“Feel free to just ask,” he says mildly, setting his cup down with a ‘ta-da!’ gesture. “We could even make a game of it. Two truths and a lie, taking turns. Whoever guesses the most lies gets to name the prize.”

“Within limits, loser has veto power,” she specifies, narrowing her eyes.

He grins, showing his canines. “Why Veronica Mars. It’s almost like you’re afraid.”

“As if,” she says. “I used to play soccer, I thought about majoring in photojournalism, and my favorite food is chocolate chip cookie pie.”

“Try harder.” He winks at her. “I saw you coveting my ice cream last night.”

“You took that dessert because you knew I wanted it!” she accuses, and realizes she’s just validated his statement. “Fine, your turn.”

He steeples his fingers and tilts his head back, in a parody of deep thought. “I have a scar on my knee from skateboarding, I’ve read EVERY Ray Bradbury novel, and I think the Cohen brothers are geniuses.”

“You did NOT make it all the way through the Martian Chronicles without giving up,” she says, polishing off her juice, starting in on her coffee. 

“Wrong,” he says. “I have a scar on my knee, but it’s from running by the pool. I was having too much fun to walk.”

She grits her teeth, and he wiggles his eyebrows. She imagines knocking the dishes off the table and having at him.

“I love the Spice Girls, I went to prom with my best friend, and I own a stuffed fox named Mr. Sassypants,” she says, instead.

He studies her. “Prom,” he decides. “You’re not the kind of girl who’d spend Senior Year without a boyfriend. I’ll bet you dated the same guy all through high school, and had emergency backups waiting in the wings.”

“Right answer, wrong reason. I didn’t GO to prom. My special guy got shipped off to reform school, the week before.”

“Wow, you DO like the bad boys.” He smiles at the waitress as she sets down his Spanish omelet. “OK, half a point for that one, and I’ll never again call you ‘prom queen’.”

She smirks as she studies her sour cream tropical pancakes, and admits, “I turned him in for dealing drugs. I don’t pine.”

Logan laughs, full-throated: when she looks up, he’s gazing at her with open admiration. “Lilly has sorely underestimated you,” he says.

“She’ll learn,” she tells him, wrinkling her nose, and he laughs some more.

“OK, I can see I’m going to have to up my game.” He cuts a precise bite, chews thoughtfully. “My middle name is Edward, I’m exceptionally good at Halo, and I secretly love Jane Austen.”

She smiles. “Your middle name is Aaron,” she corrects, softly. “Or possibly even Logan. Your father was a textbook narcissist. I’d bet money.”

“You’d win.” He gazes at her, and she gazes at him, feeling like Rikki Tikki Tavi in the cobra garden. She could not break free of his dark, solemn stare if some part of her was on fire.

“So what’s the score?” she asks.

“I’m half a point ahead. You need to fool me convincingly in the final round, or you’ll be doing something very, very dirty next time I get you alone.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Considers. “I hate any preparation of eggs involving runny yolks. I once blackmailed the Neptune Sheriff. And I like you a lot more than I thought I could.”

“You blackmailed LAMB?” he demands, delighted. “I have GOT to hear this story!”

“Work first,” she chides. “Then play.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’d ask if you realize you just threw the game,” he says, “but I’m positive you did it on purpose. Eggs. And here’s mine: I enjoy broccoli, I once won a freestyle swim competition, and I LOVE that I’m in way over my head with you.”

“Nobody likes broccoli,” she says, “so that’s too obvious to be the lie. I’m betting you got second place.”

“Third,” he confirms. “Broccoli is my favorite vegetable. And I’m going to make sure you REALLY enjoy losing.”

“I believe you’ll TRY,” she taunts, swiping pancake through her syrup. She smiles as she chews, and his feet stretch out to surround hers, beneath the table. 

“I promise to give the matter my full focus,” he says, toasting her with the last of his coffee. “Finish your breakfast, Delilah. It’s time to hit the road.”

XXXXX

They’ve been in the car for fifteen minutes when the phone starts ringing. 

At first Veronica thinks it’s hers, plugged into its shiny new Radio Shack charger in the front cup holder. But apparently, Logan’s general-purpose ringtone is the same one she reserves for clients (Jenny Lewis’s ‘Acid Tongue’, a beyond-random coincidence). She picks up his very expensive cell, reads the display. “Shula,” she alerts him, and hands it over.

“Tiny dancer!” he greets the caller cheerfully, with an eyebrow bob at Veronica. “How’s life on the swinging trapeze?”

He listens for a minute, smirks, and says, “Yeah, I didn’t call. Something came up. Repeatedly.”

Veronica smacks his arm, and he laughs, both at her and the voice on the phone. “Like to, can’t,” he says, after a minute. “I’m booked all day, doing a favor for a friend. Lilly’s still in Vegas, though. I’m sure she’d LOVE to hear from you.”

He laughs again at the response, and his grin turns evil. “My sentiments exactly,” he agrees. “For everything there is a season, you know the saying.” He cuts his eyes at Veronica, and something genuine flashes through them. “Oh, springtime. I’m smelling THESE flowers like Ferdinand the Bull, for as long as I’m welcome.”

He smiles at whatever Shula says, tells her, “You know I’ll be front row, when you’re headlining the marquee,” and signs off, handing the phone back with a flourish.

“The contortionist?” Veronica asks, accepting it.

“She’s gonna stay clear while Lilly cools down,” he confirms. “I doubt I’m at the top of her BFF’s 4-Ever list today, after I left her holding the Donut bag, to play your Knight in Rusty Armor. And same goes for anyone who might prefer my company.”

Veronica sets the phone down, digesting this, and it immediately buzzes with an incoming text. She picks it back up, laughs. 

“I will castrate you slowly while you weep,” she reads. “Well, THAT’S not helpful. This text could be from ANYBODY.”

He shakes his head at her. “Mars,” he says. “The best thing about you is that you are NEVER boring.”

The phone not in her hand rings, tinkling out a shrill instrumental of ‘Papa Don’t Preach’, so she trades. Holds up a finger to silence him as she answers. “Hey Dad!” she says, chirpily. “On the road as we speak! I overslept.”

“Your father tells me you have fallen in with hoodlums,” her grandmother intones, in her trademark disapproving rasp. She sounds like a two-pack-a-day smoker, despite never having touched a cigarette, for the same reason Aunt Shirley drinks: Grandma raised five boys, and Dad was the only mellow one.

“Not HOODLUMS, per se,” Veronica assures her, casting an amused glance at Logan. “More like celebrity children of leisure?”

He grins his feral grin, drumming fingers on the steering wheel: Grandma makes the scoffing sound that means she’s gearing up for a rant. “Parasites!” she spits. “Idle fornicators! Never trust a man who can’t work with his hands, Veronica. This roommate of yours, so rich and pretty, is like blood on the water for sharks. All the worst suitors will come, with their cursing, and alcohol, and smooth, expensive manners. Oh, I KNOW! An unmarried girl should live with her FATHER!”

“My father, who’s shacked up with his girlfriend?” Veronica asks, wryly. “Grandma. It’s a college dorm, not a bordello.”

“The world is different for men,” she scoffs, no doubt waving a dismissive hand. “You listen to me, Veronica Anne. You are IRRESISTIBLE to these predatores sorridentes, with your beauty, and your brains, and this way you scrunch your nose and everyone does what you say. But these university boys are like wolves, Veronica! And they are hunting your VIRTUE!”

This is loud enough to make Veronica wince away from the phone. Logan raises his eyebrows, preparing a smirking retort, but she covers his mouth with her hand. “Grandma,” she chides. “Does Dad know you’re using his phone?”

“Your father!” she huffs. “Always going for ‘walks’. We all know he hides in the garage with your Grandfather’s train set. Who does he think he’s fooling?”

“Grandma, you’re really breaking up here,” Veronica says, faking static. “I’m afraid the call may drop. Give everyone my love, I’ll see you in a couple hours!”

“I want my books, Veronica!” her grandmother yells. “The family recipes…”

Veronica hangs up, and Logan leers at her. “Do you actually PRETEND to be a Catholic schoolgirl in her presence, or is she just deluded?” he asks.

“Well, I DO have this great outfit I wore once, to infiltrate a group of swindling gamers,” Veronica tells him, looking up through her lashes.

He grins at her, snaring her with his heated gaze, in a way that makes her wish she had the plaid skirt in her suitcase. He says, “Your Grandma ought to be worried about MY virtue. Heretofore unsuspected depths of depravity lurk beneath your dainty golden façade.”

“Oh, like you’re not thrilled,” she scoffs. His text alert buzzes again, and she lifts the phone to read. “Don’t think for a second you’re getting Veronica in the divorce.”

“Next will come the photos of her sleeping with someone else,” he warns. “Likely a really hot blonde, with a ‘too bad you’re not here’ message beneath. I threatened to forward the next set to her mother, but I doubt she believed me.”

Veronica whistles silently. “Because you WOULDN’T,” she tells him. “I’ve got your number now, Jane Austen’s Biggest Fan. Besides, I’ve met Lilly’s mother. No one in their right mind would piss her off voluntarily.”

He shrugs, but the corners of his mouth quiver. “Nude pics are an auto-delete,” he admits. “I’m not down with some jerkoff celebrity hacker making any girl I know the next Paris Hilton. But it’s not like the break-up will stick if I ENCOURAGE her to send them.”

Veronica wants to ask what WOULD make the breakup stick, but ‘Acid Tongue’ starts playing again. Logan reaches down among the phones, grabs hers. “Cliff,” he reads, handing it over.

“Work,” she mouths as she accepts, and answers with, “Cliffie! How goes your holiday weekend among the drunk and disorderly?”

“My cornucopia runneth over,” Cliff says, drily. She can hear Inga humming David Hasselhoff in the background, over the crackle of the police band radio. “Listen, do you have the Loretta Cancun sting tapes on your laptop? Or alternatively, is your dad around? Lamb’s not buying her alibi as an FBI informant for Friday night: and every time I try to call Keith, some woman answers, and starts cursing me out in Italian.”

“I’m in a car, halfway between Vegas and Palm Springs,” Veronica says. “No Wi-fi. Call dad back, pretend to be a cop, and tell Grandma it’s life-or-death police business. If you can sound stern, manly and salt-of-the-Earth, so much the better.”

“I can sound like Barney the Purple Dinosaur if it gets me those tapes,” he says. “Thanks, V.”

“You know I’ve got your back,” Veronica assures him, and hangs up.

“My dad’s best friend’s favorite client has epic legal troubles,” she explains to Logan. “I’d tell you the whole strange story, but it’s nuts even by YOUR standards.”

“You say that like you’ll LESSEN my interest,” he begins. His phone rings again. “Damn it,” he grits, and answers with, “No, Harvey.”

Silence, while his lips flatten: his face hardens back into pre-Thanksgiving cynicism. “No, it WOULDN’T be perfect for me, Harve. Because I’m not an actor, that’s why. Of course it runs in my blood, but I prefer to use my talents to jerk around my nearest and dearest.” He sighs and rolls his eyes. “The answer is NEVER going to be yes, Harve. No, that’s not an incentive, she and I aren’t friendly. No, I can’t stand that asshole, either.”

He nudges Veronica, mouths STATIC, and she obligingly makes the crackling sounds again. “Dude, I’m headed off to Tahiti for six months, and the call’s breaking up. How about I use the down time to find myself, and YOU use it to discover a new bright-eyed Australian ‘it’ boy. Some guy who needs the money, and actually WANTS to be the next big thing.”

He hangs up, says, “On that note…” shuts his phone down, and throws it into the back seat. “Ah,” he continues, as the blissful moment of silence stretches out. “Alone at last.”

Veronica’s phone belts out ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ again, and she gives him an apologetic look as she answers. “Grandma, I told you already…”

“Veronica, what did Cliff mean you’re HALFWAY to Palm Springs? It’s two in the afternoon! You should have been here hours ago!”

“Dad!” she says. “Overslept? Then breakfast?”

“Veronica, so help me, if I have to endure another day of family bonding without you as a buffer, I’m going to say things I’ll regret. Your Uncle Al turned up married yesterday, AGAIN, and his new wife is a 24-year-old music video dancer!”

She chokes on a laugh. “Dad, you survived that family for 18 years, and spent the next 18 on the police force. You can handle one weekend. Plus, it’s not like anyone doubted it would come to this for Al, someday.”

“There’s a difference between esoteric knowledge and reality, Veronica. ‘Reality’ is currently teaching your Aunt to vibrate her…anatomy, in ways a brother should NEVER SEE.”

“Good for Aunt Shirley!” Veronica cheers, disloyally. “Maybe she’ll enjoy that skill set more than booze. Look, we should be there before too much longer. We’re currently at mile marker….” 

She glances out the window, notes the closest highway sign, which reads ‘CA 127 S’. Freezes. “Dad, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you in a while.”

She hangs the phone up. Turns it off. Faces Logan, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “This is not I-15, Echolls.”

He peers at the sign as they pass. “Wow, you’re right. I have the WORST sense of direction.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “It’s a straight shot down the interstate between Vegas, Palm Springs and Neptune. A monkey could navigate it.”

“Well, there was a lot going on,” he protests, and yeah, there’s his ‘innocent’ face. “Booty calls, angry texts, my dad’s agent’s endless quest to cast me in a surf movie. Not to mention you, promising to dress like a naughty schoolgirl…”

“You’re kidnapping me again, aren’t you?” she demands. “God, I can’t believe I trusted you to drive the car. So where are we headed this time? Nevada? Maine?”

He points at a sign ahead, which reads, ‘You Are Now Entering Death Valley National Park’. It’s the lone splash of color amidst arid, cracked plains, which extend in every direction, as far as the eye can see. 

“There had better be a good hotel here,” she mutters, subsiding with one last glare. “Featuring a big bed, and room service. And a pool.”

He looks over at her, the naughty half-grin from the shower re-asserting itself. She scowls back as hard as she can, but can’t quite suppress an answering smile.


	7. Sure To Lure Someone Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the rewatch crew: there's an easter egg in here for you. :-)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Logan drives them unerringly to the Inn at Furnace Creek, a sprawling cobblestone and adobe complex with a red-tiled roof. It’s nestled at the foot of a mountain range, facing plains that extend to the horizon; the carefully tended palm trees, the cascading series of bougainvilla’d pools, tell Veronica it’s meant to be an oasis. A retreat for the wealthy, way out in the middle of nowhere. She’s glad she doesn’t actually want to escape, because it wouldn’t be easy.

She makes a face of exaggerated surprise when Logan saunters up to the registration desk and claims a reservation, and he laughs at her with his eyes as he signs the paperwork. He pockets the key card with a twirl of his fingers, ambles out for the luggage, and she smiles to herself because he doesn’t even pretend chagrin.

Turns out he’s booked the Pool Bungalow, a cobblestone cottage overlooking a spring-fed pool, which is painted along the bottom with black vines. A white wrought iron bed dominates the main room, along with a flat-screen TV and a gold suede couch. The floor is oak, the curtains white and sheer; French doors lead to a cedar deck, featuring soaring desert views. The bed is piled with crisp white pillows over a velvety red coverlet. Veronica tries not to look at it as she stands aside to let the luggage cart past. 

Logan tips the bellhop with a folded bill extended between two fingers, then shuts the door in his face. He wanders into the room, giving it a cursory once-over, hooking his sunglasses into the front of his shirt. He’s donned a black motocross leather jacket, in defiance of the desert heat, and his hair is artfully mussed in a way that screams money. He looks like every bad boy fantasy Veronica ever masturbated to in secret, and each time she thinks of him braced over her, last night, she gets chills. The advantage he has, here, is criminally unfair.

He spins and flops down on the couch, crossing a foot over the opposite knee, spreading his arms along the back. His mouth quirks as he gets a good look at her—probably, she’s drooling—and then settles into an insufferable smug curve.

“Wanna watch TV?” he asks, like he knows she doesn’t. “Or you could call your dad again. Let him know the rescue mission he’s expecting has been once again delayed.”

“I’ll send him a text,” she says, folding her arms. “He’s a patient man, but he’s likely hit his limit.”

“Hmmm.” Logan grins outright, remorse-free. “You must take after your mom.”

“I sure hope not.” She gestures at the couch with her chin. “Is there room for one more on that thing?”

He shrugs. “If there’s not, feel free to sit on me.”

She narrows her eyes at him. He uncrosses his legs, plants both feet on the floor. She thinks about him going down on her in the steam-filled bathroom, while the Kanes’ security giant read about the Fed one room over, and wonders if there’s such a thing as female Priapism.

“I’m starving,” she decides, spinning for the desk with a flip of her hair. She digs through the drawer for the room service menu and pretends to peruse it. Her heart’s thumping, though: the low chuckle and rustling sounds behind her reveal he’s on the move.

He plants a hand on either side of her, flat on the desk, his jaw grazing hers. His body is a solid wall of muscle and heat, and she sinks back against it gratefully. “Me too,” he says. “What looks good?”

“Well…” she puts a finger on her lower lip, pretends to think. Breaks out in gooseflesh, as he nuzzles behind her ear. “Beef satay? Dates with gorgonzola and bacon? Um, artichokes? Cherry pie?”

She trails off as he lightly sucks the join of her neck and shoulder. Her breath speeds up. His hand spreads over her abdomen, holding her still, and very gently, he bites down.

“Sounds delicious,” he says, into her ear. “Order it all.” He kisses her cheek and moves away; she grits her teeth, because this fucker is deliberately torturing her.

She tosses the menu down and wanders to the window: grips the frame as she gazes out over the glowing blue pool. When she speaks, her voice sounds nervous, breathy. “It’s too bad I didn’t pack a suit. That the most inviting place to swim I think I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll bet the hotel could hook you up,” he says. She glances back over her shoulder, and he’s leaning a hip on the dark-wood dresser, both hands braced behind him. “Or alternatively, take a dip in your bra and panties. The ones you put on this morning are skimpy for the family crowd, but you’ll be REALLY popular with the dads.”

“I splurged at La Perla,” she confides, deciding to brazen this out. “I have a matching garter belt.”

He huffs a laugh, and his fingers curl against the wood. “I don’t suppose you brought it with you?”

She makes a moue of exaggerated sadness, shakes her head. “You’ll just have to imagine,” she says, voice almost a purr. He tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling.

“Veronica,” he tells the light fixture, “You are 90 pounds of napalm with a pearly white smile. I’m REALLY glad you didn’t win that bet this morning, because I’m not sure I’d survive.”

“If you had any idea what you look like in that outfit, leaning,” she says, “You’d buy extra insurance now.”

He smiles. “So strip,” he says. “Come do your worst. I dare you.”

She toes her motorcycle boots off, one and then the other, eyes locking with his across the room. Eases her red t-shirt over her head and tosses it aside, shimmies out of her jeans. Her lingerie is emerald green, gossamer lace, the balconette bra more finely constructed than the Eiffel Tower; he visibly swallows as she stalks towards him, which makes her feel mighty.

Her palms flatten against his chest, and she looks up at him, considering. His hands smooth down her back, curve around her ass, and he pulls her into the vee of his legs, tucking her close. 

She rises on tiptoe, kisses the corner of his eye; he makes a soft sound of anticipation. His fingers dip into the cleft between her cheeks, tracing the g-string. She kisses his eyebrow--slides one hand across his belly to the front of his jeans, curves her palm around his cock. He groans, and squeezes. 

His hands slip down her thighs, he lifts, and before she can process, they’re spinning in dizzy circles. She shrieks and wraps her arms around his neck—it’s just so…unexpected. She’s seen him happy, in the last 24 hours, but this seems almost joyous.

Then he sets her on the bed, commences devouring her mouth with his. And she forgets about Logan Echolls, cyclone, when confronted with Logan Echolls, hurricane. 

He shucks his jacket and unbuttons his fly with a grimace, which seems to ease him; his kisses grow more leisurely. His hand delves into her underwear, exploring. Her breath slips out in a sigh as the pleasure builds, and she sprawls back, planting one heel on the mattress.

He straightens, gazing down at her, his thumb circling her clit with deceptive idleness. “I know what I want,’ he says, testing her with two fingers, pushing in. “For my prize. Since I won, fair and square, whereas you did not.”

She makes a small noise, heat gathering; there’s a delicious juxtaposition between his conversational tone, and the intimate things his hand is doing. “We’ll see,” she manages.

He smiles. “Tell me a fantasy, while I fuck you,” he says. “Something you think about, when you’re alone in the shower, messing around with the soap. Something nobody but you knows.”

She bites her lip as he pauses to yank his shirt off, kick out of his shoes and jeans. His hand returns to its work, three fingers this time; she starts to doubt her ability to form coherent sentences.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the first day we met?” she asks, hooking her feet around his thighs to draw him closer. He obliges…then hisses as she grasps his cock with both hands, begins her own torture. “When I yelled at you, for tracking sand all over my living room?”

“Mmm, I recall you ripped me a new one,” he says, crawling up over her. “You were very descriptive.” 

He nips the curve of her ear, balancing on one elbow, undulating gracefully into her grip in a way that makes her mouth dry. He sucks at her throat, curving a finger up against her g-spot, and she comes with a strangled moan, knees curling up towards her chest.

He slides one strap of the bra down, curving his tongue around her nipple, and she says, “I dreamed about you that night.”

He kisses her, tears open the condom secreted in his fist, rolls it on. Locks eyes with her, as he eases her underpants down her legs. They both suck in their breath as he penetrates, one foot braced on the floor. “Yelling at me turned you on?” he asks, with a slow, devastating thrust, and there’s amusement, not condemnation in his voice.

“No, it was the way you looked at me. Insolent, entertained, like I didn’t intimidate you at all. I terrify EVERYONE.” She locks her heels together, twines her arms around his neck, her gaze never wavering from his. She WANTS to see his face when he comes. She wants him to see hers. “But YOU seemed almost ADMIRING. You said something about cleaning yourself off, if I’d hand you a sponge. And I dreamed that night about soaping you up in my pep squad uniform, like we were at a fundraising car wash, while you stood there naked and smirked at me.”

He breaks out in goose bumps, nipples knotting, and maybe he releases pheromones or something; she can smell him suddenly, guy musk and sweat, clean, oceany, briny cologne. She licks her upper lip, tasting salt, and he says, “Touch yourself. Make yourself come. I’ve got maybe 30 seconds left if I don’t look at your mouth, and I…oh, God.”

He groans as she slides a hand between them, teasing two fingers over her clit, and his gaze rivets there as his pace increases, muscles clenching across his arms and chest. He grips her hip tight, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut; as he spills, he moans her name. 

Something about the way he says it, like he feels as besotted and overwhelmed as she does, tips her over the edge. She slides into orgasm, long, luxurious contractions clutching him close inside her. They leave her languorous and drained.

“I want to see this pep squad uniform,” he whispers, near her ear, and she laughs, embracing him with arms and legs. He rolls, so she’s on top: she sprawls bonelessly over him, as his hand strokes down her spine.

“You’re giving me zero incentive to ever stop kidnapping you,” he tells her, a lazy drawl. “You realize that, right?”

“I have school,” she says, equally unconcerned. “And a job. We’ve got to go back to the real world SOMEDAY.”

“I have a statistics test next week, and I need to meet my trustees. A new tier of blood money just opened up. Ask me if I care.”

She crosses her arms on his chest, balances her chin atop. “What DO you care about?” she wonders aloud. “What makes you happy?”

He smiles at her, eyes soft, lifts a hand to cup her jaw. His thumb traces her cheekbone. “The look on your face,” he says. “Freedom. The knowledge that everyone expects me to fall apart, when the holiday season approaches, but so far I never have. I’m also pretty fond of winning bets.”

She turns her face to kiss his palm. “We need to eat,” she says. “And not each other. OK, maybe each other, but food first. I wasn’t lying when I said I was starving.”

“Bad room service and slumber party?” he asks, tucking hair back behind her ear. “Or what passes for night-life in this one horse town?”

“Do I get to braid your hair and paint your nails?” She traces a finger down the long, straight bridge of his nose. “Can we watch ‘Dirty Dancing’ for the thousandth time?”

“Dirty Dancing, unh-uh. And nobody touches my hair without professional references. The nail polish is negotiable. I’m also willing to check out whatever chick flick is currently on pay-per-view…as long as you’re cuddled up next to me, in the skimpiest pajamas you brought.”

“Deal,” she says. “Provided I get two appetizers, a steak and dessert. And that swimsuit you promised me, for later.”

He grins, pretends to spit on his hand, holds it out. She shakes. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mars,” he says. “Go order your loot. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Then I want to investigate this eating-each-other plan you mentioned, while we wait for delivery. I think it’s got merit.”

XXXXX

Veronica is asleep flat on her face when the food arrives; Logan’s attention to detail has left her near-comatose. He grabs her by the hip and wiggles as he climbs over her and stands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He tugs on his jeans. 

“Grab your PJ’s and head to the bathroom,” he advises, winking as she watches him fasten buttons. He gestures up and down, encompassing her nude sprawl. “No amount of service deserves THIS big a tip.”

She groans, reflecting that HIS service does, but complies, while he shouts “Hold on a minute!” at the door. When she emerges, scrubbed, pigtailed and dressed for a night in, he’s arraying food across the coffee table, pouring water into cups.

He glances up and smiles, eyebrows quirking at her tank-and-sleep-pants ensemble. “Pink ice cream cones?” he asks, suppressed laughter in his voice. “Unexpected fashion choice for an ass kicker like yourself.”

“I was on my way to GRANDMA’S house,” she protests. “What did you expect? See-through baby-doll with pom-poms on the boobs?”

“Interesting, but no, not the visual I had in mind.” He finishes assembling, makes a flat-palmed gesture as if telling the food to stay put, and heads over to rummage through his suitcase. “Back in five,” he says, kissing the crown of her head as he passes, and disappears into the bathroom.

She flops down onto the couch: pages through pay-per-view movies while she waits, munching on the cheese and bacon dates. After a few minutes, he climbs over the back and settles next to her, wearing a grey wife-beater, and jersey sleep pants that cling distractingly.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks, plucking the date from her hand, popping it into his mouth, and smirking when she narrows her eyes. 

“In Bruges, Twilight, Tropic Thunder, or the one where Indiana Jones escapes a nuclear blast in an old fridge,” she tells him. “I’ll be judging you based on your choice.”

“I’ve already seen In Bruges five times.” He leans over to snag an aioli-laden fried artichoke. “But I’m fully prepared to watch it again. Tropic Thunder is an acceptable second. The others hurt my brain.”

“Tropic Thunder,” she decides, pressing buttons. “It’s better slumber party material. We can laugh and gossip and pause it to play parlor games, and there won’t be any angsty moments.”

“Did you order a Ouija board?” he asks, peering across the room at the bag the concierge service sent. “So we can contact all my dead loved, and not-so-loved, relatives in the great beyond?”

She shakes her head. “But if your phone has a flashlight function, we can play Bloody Mary in the bathroom mirror, later on.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” He peels a chunk of beef off a skewer, dips it in Satay sauce. “A veteran of numerous sleepovers, are you?”

“Less than you’d think.” She foregoes her steak for the moment, digs into her cherry pie. “My best friend is a guy. You?”

He shrugs. “I stayed at Duncan’s a lot, before things got so…difficult. But mostly I just played video games and waited for him to sleep, so I could sneak across the hall and bang his sister.”

“Interesting.” She offers him a bite of pie, which he accepts. “So you’re familiar with the pillow-fight/ kissing-practice portion of the evening already. That should help.”

He laughs. “Careful, Veronica. I’m feeling pretty infatuated as is. Comments like that will only make things worse.”

She flutters her lashes, widening her eyes so they’re as large and limpid as possible. “We could EXPERIMENT,” she says, in a kitten voice. “Although I’ve never done that kind of thing with a BOY before. The gift you’ve got for me in your pocket is so HUGE, I’m not sure how we’ll even make it FIT.”

He shakes his head at her. “You,” he says, in admiring tones, “are BENT. Instead of playing white knight at the hotel yesterday, I should have been worried for LILLY.”

She smirks at him. “Eat your dinner,” she advises. “You’ll need all your strength for the upcoming game of truth or dare.”

XXXXX

They eat, and watch the movie, pausing halfway through when he discovers the backs of her knees are ticklish. They end up thrashing around laughing until they fall to the floor. 

By the time the credits roll, they’ve settled into a contented stupor. He’s sprawled full-length across the couch, feet crossed on the arm as he hums along with the final theme. She’s cradling his head on her lap, carefully painting his fingernails black.

“You are the most meticulously groomed man I’ve ever met,” she says, turning his palm left, then right to inspect her handiwork. “If you didn’t bite your nails, your façade would be flawless.”

He lifts his palms to the heavens, miming ‘what are you gonna do?’. “I have trouble staying awake in class,” he admits. “And completing required reading. I have to load up on caffeine and sugar, or inflict minor pain on myself, to stay focused. Probably I should take Adderall or something, but I’m not a fan of pills. My mom left an empty bottle of Valium on the car seat, the day she jumped off a bridge.”

She caps the bottle of polish and sets it on the table, taking comfort in efficiency. “I’m weird about booze,” she confides. “I’m only comfortable getting tipsy when I’m happy and celebrating. My mom’s an alcoholic, and even though I know I’m stronger than that…if I drink when I’m sad, it feels too much like a crutch.”

Logan whistles. “Rough,” he says. “Considering your dad used to be Sheriff.”

“Operative words, used to be.” She sighs. “He lost popularity after she put a pedestrian in the hospital in a vodka haze, then fled town. She shows up occasionally to beg, borrow or steal cash, after which she disappears again. I stopped allowing her past the door five years ago.”

“Smart move.” He examines his nails, testing carefully with the pad of one finger to see if the polish is dry. “People who have substance-abuse problems can kick, and get better. But those willing to leave their loved ones destitute will probably never change.”

She traces along his hairline, the brief point of his sideburn, to his nape. “It’s weirdly easy when we’re alone together, isn’t it? This…” she gestures back and forth between them, “whatever it is we’ve got going. It doesn’t matter how incompatible we seem to the outside world. Everything’s dandy when we’re locked in the bedroom.”

He takes her hand in both of his, kisses it. “Do you want to discuss what THIS is?” he asks. “Or was that just a general observation?”

She shakes her head. “Pretty sure we both know how we feel.”

He grins, and she notices for the first time that when he does, his upper lip shortens adorably. There’s an innocence to the smile he saves just for her: as if it’s one he uses so rarely, it hasn’t quite grown up. “And I’m equally sure nobody else will approve. I don’t, personally, give a fuck; but I’m stating that for the record, in case you do.”

“I can’t help but think this is a stolen interlude,” she says. “Literally stolen, it only happened because you’re devious as hell. Whenever it ends, your loved ones and mine are going to try to end us. And while I appreciate you saying you don’t care…you’ve had trouble disentangling from Lilly, in the past. Whereas I blew all my money on the suite she and I share; I can’t afford to move. 

“I mean, no doubt we could take her, if we formed a united front. But it WILL be a battle, she won’t accept this placidly. It’s not just me who needs to be sure the reward is worth the fight.”

He makes a wry face. “You didn’t know me in my teens. So you may not be aware that I have NO trouble starting, or shutting down, brawls. It’s the non-lethal, non-bridge-burning confrontations where I flounder. If Lilly can’t accept me drawing the platonic line, our friendship is over whether you’re involved or not. I’m honestly more worried about alienating your father.”

“Dad’s a fair man,” she says, shifting to lie down. She rests her feet on the opposite couch arm from his, her head on his belly. His hand rises to cup the back of her scalp, protective. “He’s also very shrewd. He’s protective of me, especially since the Troy debacle. But he has no trouble recognizing true worth.”

“Troy being the drug dealer you gave up to the law?” He asks. She nods, and he says, “Wait, are you talking about Troy VANDEGRAFF? Oh my GOD, Veronica, you DATED that guy?”

She lifts up on her elbow to look at his face. “For three years,” she confirms. “You know him?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “He used to douche around the marina where Dad kept his yacht, back when I was in high school. Had some way-dysfunctional long-term thing with this messed-up girl named Shauna, they were always shoplifting shit. Turning up at parties chock-full of E, making a half-dressed spectacle in some corner. He never pissed me off enough to get his face beaten in; but if he was cheating on you with her that whole time, I’ll damn sure go find him and do it NOW.”

She puts a restraining hand on his chest. “Easy, tiger. The boys in the yard already have that part covered.”

He huffs, breathing out agitation, and she rubs her palm in soothing circles. “You’re protective,” she murmurs, as his tension fades. “Suddenly the whole Kane thing makes sense. You’re the sheepdog, they’re your lambs.”

“Nobody messes with my girl,” he says, and the look he directs at her is dead serious.

“Those who go after me live to regret it,” she agrees, donning her most dangerous shark smile. It makes him laugh. “And my protection extends to all the people I love.”

They gaze at each other, entwined on the sofa in yin-yang, like puzzle pieces. Neither of them comments on her word choice; but both are secretly happy to hear it said.


	8. I Don't Think Little Big Girls Should

Veronica floats in the pool as the sun rises, arms spread wide like she’s embracing the sky. The suit procured by the hotel is a bit large, a nondescript one-piece in malachite green, but it doesn’t matter. She feels bone-deep relaxed in a way she hasn’t since childhood. She’s sure she visibly radiates happiness: glows with it, a newly-made star.

She does a lazy backstroke towards the edge, enjoying the warmth that permeates the water, brushes past her on the breeze. The pink-tinged, gilded clouds glimmer towards morning. No day she can recall has begun feeling this right. She doesn’t want to name the emotion suffusing her…but she recognizes it. And weirdly, it fails to kick-start the urge to flee.

There’s movement by the gate; an older couple, coffee in hand, settling at an umbrella’d table to greet the morning. Veronica doesn’t want to share her moment of epiphany with strangers, however nice they seem. She swims to the steps and evacuates, donning a gold terry bathrobe with a faint smile of greeting. Heads through her own personal gate to the Pool Bungalow, via the French door she’s left slightly ajar.

Logan’s sprawled across the entire king-sized bed, lanky limbs stretched towards the corners, head tilted sideways as he snores. The sheet covers nothing but one calf, so she yanks it off, checking him out as she disrobes. He seems imperious even at rest. 

She crawls on top of him and settles, cheek pressed to his heart. He makes an attempting-to-surface huff, then subsides, one arm curving to drape across her. She traces a fingernail around his nipple, and his cock swells against her thigh, but he doesn’t wake. She smiles, kisses his sternum, and drifts down slowly into sleep.

XXXXX

She’s awakened, half an hour later, by the sound of the door splintering.

One moment she’s drifting on a happy cloud that smells like hair gel, pheromones and Hugo Boss cologne, dreaming she’s sailing into the sky; the next, she’s been shoved unceremoniously to the floor. And Logan’s face down on the bed, a gun pressed to his ear.

“Don’t you fucking move, asshole,” his captor growls, planting a knee in the small of his back. “I’ll put a bullet in your frat-boy brain before you can say, ‘Kidnapping is a felony!’.” 

Veronica scrambles to wrap herself in her robe, shoving damp hair out of her eyes. “Norris?” she demands. Shakes her head, to clear it. But no; the younger bail-bondsman who subcontracts for her dad is still perched atop her boyfriend, crooning threats. “Jesus, let GO of him! He didn’t kidnap me! It was a JOKE!”

“That’s not what Keith said.” Norris’s too-intense dark gaze flits over her, glances off, and he flushes bright red. He grabs a handful of hair and yanks when Logan tries to break his hold; the veins in his super-cut arms twist like writhing snakes. “Uh-uh, don’t try it. You’re going nowhere but jail, motherfucker. Keith told me you hung up mid-call and went off-map, Veronica. And the same’s been happening regularly, since Echolls here came into your orbit. You picked the wrong girl to mess with, you rich piece of shit. Veronica got FRIENDS who protect her. And FAMILY.”

“Clayton, get off the guy before he suffocates,” a voice calls from outside. Veronica turns as Vinnie Van Lowe climbs over the smashed door, with a faint, exhausted head-shake. He’s dressed much like Norris, in black combat trousers and boots, a black t-shirt that reads BOND ENFORCEMENT. But whereas Norris has accessorized with two leather wristlets and a samurai headband, his sole concession to style is a Members Only windbreaker in grey. 

“He went for my gun!” Norris protests, gaze darting, paranoid, between those present. Like attack could come from anywhere. “It was self-defense!”

“Are you juicing again?” Veronica demands. She flings a pillow at Norris, which he fails to dodge, and addresses her outrage to Vinnie. “Why do you give him a pass on this? Do you know what steroids do to you BALLS, not to mention your BRAIN, Clayton? They SHRINK stuff! And I’m pretty sure that’s the LAST thing you want!”

“I have PLENTY to spare.” He retreats to the center of the room and goes back to staring at Logan, while fondling his gun. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” he says, though Logan’s just raking unnerved fingers through his hair, and muttering ‘Jesus’. “Go ahead and try it, asshole.”

“Can I at least put on clothes?” Veronica asks, hands in the air, with an exasperated glance at Vinnie. “Do you WANT my dad to know you walked in on me naked?”

“Whatever.” Norris nods grudgingly, then swings the gun back to Logan, arresting him mid-bend as he reaches for his jeans. “Not you. Who knows what you’re packing?”

Logan glances at Veronica with lifted brows, and she rolls her eyes. “Check his pockets yourself,” she says. “His most deadly weapon is his black Amex.”

Vinnie gives an exaggerated sigh, moves forward to gather up Logan’s clothes. He paws through them, extracting wallet, phone, keys, and a strip of Magnums that prompts a whistle. “You’re a tough girl to impress, VMars,” he says, sardonic, and tosses the wad of fabric at Logan. “Get dressed, Romeo. We’re on a schedule, here.”

Logan tugs on his jeans with a smirk at Norris, and says, in an undertone, to Veronica, “Let me guess. You forgot to check in with your Dad last night, amidst all the excitement.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, eyes big with distress, as she yanks her shirt from under the dresser. “I was REALLY distracted.”

“Would it help if you called him NOW?” He suggests, acid, donning his tee inside out. “Maybe they’d at least put away the Sigs?”

“Negatory,” Vinnie says, finishing his inspection of Logan’s jacket, handing it over. “We get paid when we deliver you to Keith. And I’m guessing, based on the way we found you, that you have some Stockholm Syndrome going on, Mars. So we’re door-to-door, this trip; then the client can decide if he wants cops invited to the party.”

“I’m not going anywhere voluntarily,” Veronica says, crossing her arms. She may look like an Ewok in the giant gold robe, but she’s too pissed to care. “It’s not like I’m 16, running away from home. I forgot to call Dad, and I regret that; but he doesn’t get a vote on where I spend the night.”

“Aw, c’mon Veronica, don’t be this way. You’ve got to go home, or we don’t get paid.” Norris leans in close to her, speaks in a bashful undervoice. “If don’t make the payment on my Camaro, they’ll repossess it. And guys like me do NOT ride the bus.”

“Do guys like you court prison to avoid embarrassment?” she demands. “I didn’t do anything illegal, and neither did Logan. We’re not in violation of a bond. If you force us to leave here, YOU’RE the kidnappers. And the splintered wood on the floor? That’s breaking and entering.”

“You can’t seriously be choosing this guy over us!” Norris whisper-yells. “He’s like a comic book super villain! He wears hair gel and perfume, and he PAINTS HIS FINGERNAILS!”

“So?” Logan shrugs into his jacket with a smirk, pockets his sunglasses. “What’s wrong, sunshine? Do my fashion choices threaten your masculinity?”

“I’ll threaten your masculinity,” Norris growls. “Last time I checked, I was the one with the gun. You shut the hell up, and get in the van.”

Veronica smacks Norris on the side of the head, and he gives her a pleading look. “Back off my boyfriend, Clayton, or I will cut you. He can be as metrosexual as he wants…he can wear GUYLINER if he wants…and it won’t make him any less hot. And YOU, Vinnie!” She shifts focus, and Vinnie takes a proactive step back. “You know better than this! You’re on the wrong side of the law, here. Both of you will end up arrested, and Millie WON’T be happy.”

“Playing dirty, VMars,” Vinnie says, pointing at her with her own messenger bag, which he’s rifling. “Millie doesn’t get a vote. We need money, and I’M the guy in charge.”

“In charge of WHAT?” Logan wants to know. He seems amused, now that she’s kicking the asses of two armed men. “A clown car? You’re posers in costumes, with no clue what you’re doing: my DAD led better fake SWAT teams. I bet that gun’s not even loaded.”

Norris shoots the wall, widening his eyes in silent threat, and Logan laughs. “Aaaaand any security not already alerted by your COPS routine is definitely on the way NOW. While the front desk calls the REAL police, as we speak.”

Vinnie extracts Veronica’s taser from the bag with a grunt of triumph, presses it to Logan’s hand. With a twitch and shudder, Logan slumps silently to the floor. “Good point,” Vinnie says, to his motionless form. “We should cut the chitchat, and make tracks.”

“Cuff him and put him in the van,” he continues, turning to Norris. “You hurt him while stashing him, though, and his hospital bills come out of your paycheck. This right here is a completely above board citizen’s arrest.”

Norris gets his shoulder under Logan, who’s recovered enough to groan, and lifts him in a fireman’s carry. Vinnie turns his smarmy gaze on Veronica. “Now. You want to come quietly, or should I put you in cuffs, too?”

“You’re going to pay for hurting him,” she grits, temper ignited.

“Actually VMars? Your dad’s gonna pay. Or you could bang MTV reality stars up and down the San Andreas Fault, and I’d have nothing to say but ‘Mazel Tov’.”

He extracts Veronica’s cell from her bag, powers it off, shoves it into his pocket. She says, “I have to get dressed before we go anywhere. Turn around.”

Vinnie gives her an exasperated look. “What am I, stupid? I turn, you run. That trick is so old, it PRE-DATES the book.”

“You DON’T turn, I tell my dad you perved on me,” Veronica threatens. “And then BOTH he and Logan will be salivating to hurt you.”

Vinnie sighs and turns. Veronica wraps the curtain around herself, changes quickly into her clothes, and slips through the crack in the patio door. Her plan is to grab the pool skimmer, get it over Norris’s head before he staggers across the lot, and hope Logan’s recovered enough to flee.

She’s halfway through the pool enclosure when Vinnie catches her by the shirt, and lifts her, upside down. “I TOLD you you’d run!” he accuses, twisting her sideways as she tries to kick his head. “You LIED to me!”

“Of course I lied!” she snaps. “You’re kidnapping me! You forfeit friend honesty! And if you think I’m getting in that van without a fight, you really don’t know me at all!” 

Veronica’s as good as her word. She tries every trick learned in self-defense class to make Vinnie’s life hell. She elbows, throat-punches, and kicks him in the nuts. She clings to the doorway of the van and won’t let go. When a family of tourists putters by on a golf cart, no doubt headed for the Breakfast Barn, she screams “Call the police, I’m being kidnapped!”. And when Vinnie manhandles her inside, slides the door shut, and screams “GO GO GO!”, she uses his moment of distraction to punch him in the nose.

“OW!” Vinnie yells, scrambling over Logan’s semi-coherent form into the passenger seat, clutching his bleeding face. “What was THAT for? I didn’t hurt you!”

“You DESERVED it!” Veronica hisses, baring her teeth in distinctly feline menace. “I was having a GOOD TIME being kidnapped before YOU showed up!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Millie, Vinnie’s mother, is driving, seated on a phone book so her head clears the dash. She guns it out of the lot, stretching one orthopedic shoe to reach the pedal; the chain on her glasses quivers as she powers over a speed bump. “Vincent, fasten your seatbelt, and wipe your face with a tissue! Veronica, I’m disappointed in you. You’re usually such a NICE girl!”

“Not today, she isn’t,” Vinnie says, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from the seat-center caddy, pressing it to his gushing nose. “Jesus, my back! Mars, you’re not big enough to inflict this much pain!”

“He TASED MY BOYFRIEND,” Veronica informs Millie, with relish. “And he MANHANDLED me. My dad will be FURIOUS about the way you’re acting. And that’s nothing compared to what my grandma will do, when she finds out you left the Mars family recipes abandoned in a hotel room, for any passer-by to steal.”

“I left the what where?” Vinnie asks, voice muffled by tissue. He glances in the rearview; turns, alarmed. “Wait, is that golf cart CHASING US?”

Veronica laughs, because yes, it is, the plump woman in the right-front passenger seat frantically dialing a cell phone. Then Logan groans, stirs; she shoves Norris, who’s crouched by his head with a billy club, aside so she can cradle him. “Hi,” she says tenderly. He squints one eye open, and wipes the corner of his mouth. “Are you OK?”

“Well, I just got electrocuted,” he says. “But otherwise, I’m dandy. Where are we?”

“In Vinnie’s fake locksmith van,” she informs him. “Being chased by a golf cart full of tourists, and…yep….hotel security, with a flashing yellow light on the roof. I expect the cops to join in, any minute.”

“This is gonna make the news,” Logan says, with a weak smile. “Dad would be so proud.”

“Don’t try to talk,” she chides, smoothing damp hair from his brow. She notices a bruise at his temple, and shoves Norris off balance. “You HIT him! What is WRONG with you?”

“He was coming around!” Norris protests, gaze darting, hunted all over the van. “He would have gone for my throat!”

“Your dad HIRED these people?” Logan asks, voice husky. “I thought you said he was reasonable!”

“He always has been!” she defends. “He must be REALLY worried about me.”

“This relationship is not off to an auspicious start,” Logan murmurs, stroking his fingertips down her cheek. He takes her hand, examines it. “Why is there blood on your knuckles?”

“That’s just Vinnie’s,” she says. “Nobody gets to abduct me but you.”

“All this kidnapping talk makes me flustered,” Millie says, smoothing down the sheer pink scarf covering her grey perm. She kicks the speedometer up to 90, as they enter the highway, and the golf cart falls behind. “Vincent, dear, will you get the cookies out of the glove box? I think we could all use a treat, right now.”

“Ma, nobody needs a COOKIE,” Vinnie grumbles, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of painkillers, swallowing one dry. He does as instructed though, locating Thin Mints, breaking the seal. “Jesus, how hard is it to lose a Smart Car?” He hands her one, and she pats his arm. “Eat it quick, ma, you need both hands on the wheel.”

He takes a sleeve of cookies for himself, gives the rest to Norris. “Here, pass these out. Maybe they’ll sweeten the tempers of some people I’m not naming.”

Norris shares with Veronica, grinning bashfully, but kicks Logan when he tries to reach for one. “You, hands off,” he says. “You don’t deserve cookies, you shady motocross piece of shit.”

Veronica defiantly feeds Logan a cookie. He accepts with a smirk, making “Mmmm,” noises directly at Norris, who glares in impotent fury. 

“Yeah, good, right?” Vinnie says over his shoulder, extracting Veronica’s phone from his pocket. He pages through her contact list, likely looking for Keith’s number. “Thin Mints are the best, although personally, I like ‘em better frozen.”

“You were a girl scout, weren’t you Veronica dear?” Millie asks, weaving between two Hondas with maybe an inch to spare. “You looked ADORABLE in your uniform, with your little blonde pigtails! And you had SO MANY badges!”

“I had the MOST badges,” Veronica agrees, eyes on Vinnie. “But I got kicked out, for fighting.”

“Awww,” Logan says. “I got kicked out of EVERYTHING for fighting! It’s like we were made for each other!” He smiles, and she smiles back; just for a second, she forgets they’re in the midst of a high-speed chase, and goes back to feeling happy.

“You were MADE for orange jumpsuits and community soap,” Norris mutters, and then Vinnie’s call connects. 

“Keith!” he says, with false bonhomie, plastering on a big fake grin, like Keith can see through the phone. “Compadre! You will be pleased to hear that we’ve successfully retrieved your daughter. She’s on her way back to you, safe and sound.”

“THEY ABDUCTED ME AGAINST MY WILL!” Veronica screams at the top of her lungs, making everyone in the van flinch. “VINNIE MANDHANDLED ME, AND I HAVE BRUISES! HE WATCHED ME GET DRESSED!”

“He WHAT?” Logan demands, sitting up easily, despite his restraints. “Are you OK?”

Yelling filters faintly from Veronica’s phone; Vinnie flinches away. “Now come, on, Keith,” he says, placating. “You know I turned my back.”

“THEY COMMITTED CRIMES, AND WE’RE IN A HIGH SPEED CHASE WITH COPS, RIGHT NOW!” Veronica shrieks. A siren kicks in, punctuating this statement: Veronica’s grandmother begins to scream, in Italian. 

Logan peers out the window, shielding his eyes with his cuffed hands. “Shit,” he says. “We’ve got a Smart Car, a Humvee, three police cruisers and a news helicopter back there. We’re leading a morons’ parade.” He turns to Veronica, uncharacteristically serious. “If we get pulled over, you go face down on the floor, and stay that way. There’s no way this can end but badly, and I don’t want you shot.”

She nods, and he kisses her, brief and sweet, gentle and hot. She reaches up to curve a hand around his cheek; but he’s yanked backwards from her grip by Norris, who puts him in a billy-club choke hold.

“You get OFF HER, asshole!” Norris yells, eyes wild; all the stress, coupled with steroids, has made him fucking lose it. “You keep your pervert painted-nails hands to yourself! You may have had Veronica naked, doing who knows what, in that hotel room; but you don’t hold all the CARDS, HERE!”

Vinnie winces, as the distress on the other end of his phone escalates to fever pitch. He quickly hangs up. Logan claws at the billy club, making gagging sounds; Veronica whacks Norris with her messenger bag, loosening his hold. Then Logan gets an elbow into Norris’s gut, flips him judo-style, and climbs atop. Veronica discovers he can punch repeatedly and efficiently, while handcuffed, with no difficulty whatsoever.

A police car pulls even with them, and a cop with a bullhorn leans out the window, demanding they stop. Millie shrieks and jerks sideways, yanking the wheel inadvertently; cookies fly everywhere, as Vinnie grabs the oh-shit handle. 

Veronica clutches the back of Logan’s jacket and tugs to get his attention, shouting “Face down, remember?” at his grim and flushed visage. Norris uses the opportunity to kick him in the stomach, and with a sneer, Logan throws himself back into the fray. Veronica rolls her eyes to the heavens, screams her frustration, and yanks again. Shoves Logan down when he turns and lies atop, so he can’t go back to fighting. 

The van screeches against a guard rail, with a sound like a giant can opening, and comes to a shuddering halt. Sirens fills the silence. Veronica can smell dust filtering through the air vent, along with smashed cookies and gasoline.

Then the door jerks open, blinding them all with sudden, intense sunlight. Veronica hides her face in Logan’s neck, and puts her hands behind her head.


	9. You Ought To Walk With Me and Be Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to Irma! You asked for a chapter of this one? You got it! :-)
> 
> Many apologies to all for the long delay on this story. Between NaNoWriMo, the holidays and a bad case of Writer's Block, it took forever to get this fic back on track. A billion thanks to Rupert, without whose expert brainstorming skills this chapter wouldn't exist. I tried my best to make it worth the wait.

CHAPTER NINE

It’s Saturday at 10:13, according to the howling-coyote clock on the wall. Forty-eight hours from now, Veronica will be in biopsychology class, reviewing the neurology of psychoses for her midterm exam. Currently, she’s cross legged on a cot in an Inyo County jail cell, with two hundred pounds of bad boy sprawled across her lap.

She’s toying with Logan’s hair, molding it into spikes, mentally rehearsing outraged speeches to her dad. Logan’s cheek is pressed to her belly, his palm curled around her knee; and he’s whistling ‘Jailhouse Blues’ with the smug disregard for punishment only a ton of money buys. 

In the adjacent cell, Norris paces like a zoo lion, muttering imprecations and punching his palm. The cops confiscated his accessories, after they proved to contain weapons; he looks like a cranky personal trainer now, in his too-snug logo tee. Logan watches his progress with raptor-bright eyes, deceptively lazy… but Veronica’s not fooled. Whenever Norris starts to wind down, Logan gives him a verbal nudge.

Right on cue, Logan segues into ‘Kung Fu Fighting’, adding a show-offy rill to attract attention. Norris growls, rattles the bars, and yells, “You just wait, asshole! WAIT ‘til we’re both released. You’ve never SEEN kung fu like mine!”

Veronica elbows Logan and he subsides, eyes dancing with unvoiced laughter. “You know, I was told by a judge once that I have anger-management issues,” he confides, in the low, sardonic voice that makes her belly flutter. “I’m guessing His Eminence never met THIS guy.”

“Norris was a ticking time bomb in junior high,” Veronica murmurs. “He got himself under control for a while, thanks to a ton of pot. But the obsession with Bruce Lee eventually drove him to steroids.”

“If only he’d been a fan of my dad’s,” Logan says, smirking. “Aaron’s training regimen involved body waxing and spray tans.”

“Knock it off, Clayton,” Vinnie calls, as Norris begins shadow-boxing to menace Logan. He sits hunched on his own cot, trying not to move, while Millie flutters ineffectually around him; his nose is swollen, he has two black eyes, and tissue is stuffed up his nostrils. “The Sheriff’s gonna shoot you with a tranq gun.”

“You should ask for an Advil,” Millie advises, poking Vinnie’s spine. He groans and bats away her hand. “That helped last time you threw your back out, apprehending.”

Vinnie closes his eyes in frustration. “Ma, I took four painkillers in the van. I don’t NEED an Advil.”

“Maybe an ice pack, then? Your face is AWFULLY purple.”

“How about you get Roid Rage over there to calm down, instead of hassling me?” Vinnie tests one eyelid with a fingertip, winces. “He’s gonna tear this cell apart like King Kong, if Laguna Beach won’t quit whistling.”

“Do NOT offer aid and comfort, Mrs. Van Lowe!” Veronica yells, from the next cell. “I want them both to SUFFER!”

“Aw, Veronica,” Norris protests, making kicked-puppy face. “Don’t be that way! We were RESCUING you!”

Logan sneers at him, grabs the hand stroking his hair, presses it to his lips. Norris goes back to karate-chopping the bars.

“If his head actually explodes like in ‘Scanners’, I’m holding you responsible,” Veronica warns, spreading her fingers so Logan can kiss each one. 

“Mmm, here’s hoping.” Logan gives her palm a covert lick. “There’s nothing hotter than a blonde with a vicious streak.”

Veronica boops his nose, and the world stops for a second as they smile at each other. The idyll is broken only by Veronica’s phone, which rings, for the thirteenth time, within her bag on the deputy’s desk.

“Your dad REALLY wants to talk to you,” Logan observes, as every muscle in her body goes rigid.

“Well, he can KEEP wanting! I can’t BELIEVE he’d set these goons on us, just because I forgot to call! I’m TWENTY-ONE! I don’t even live at home! He needs to get a GRIP!”

“Totally not arguing.” Logan lifts his face to her ear, so he’s heard over Norris’s ranting. “But be careful what information you share. Gossip related to me sells, and that deputy’s spellbound by the coffee machine. Clearly there’s not much excitement around here.”

Veronica studies the plump and slack-jawed dudebro in question; he’s clutching a Styrofoam cup, staring with car-crash fascination. “That boy’s whole attitude screams ‘easy mark’… he’s drama-loving, credulous and not too bright. I could talk our way out of here in five minutes, if I got him alone.”

“Oooh!” Logan presses her hand dramatically to his heart. “Vicious AND unscrupulous. And CALCULATING. Veronica Mars, you complete me.”

The front door sweeps open, ushering in salvation in the form of Cliff McCormack. He’s unshaven and sweaty in a Hawaiian shirt, with a three-day-bender case of bedhead. His companion, conversely, is glam in the way only exotic dancers manage, regally rocking a gold halter dress. Her braids are twined in an elaborate up-do, her sloe eyes false-lashed and cat-linered to the nines. She’s got on gold sandals with four-inch heels, bangles halfway up her forearms, and she steamrolls the goofy deputy like he’s made of paper.

“What the HELL kind of human-rights-violating, female-hating law enforcement have y’all got in this town?” she demands, wielding a gold-nailed index finger like a dagger. “Veronica Mars is a VICTIM of illegal-as-fuck activities. I’m gonna mess up your dumb-ass face, if you don’t set her loose NOW.”

The deputy retreats behind his desk, and she stalks after him, feline.

“This is your cavalry?” Logan asks in an undervoice, watching the kid cringe. “A hobo and a valkyrie?”

“The hobo’s my lawyer,” Veronica says, amused. “The ass-kicker’s Loretta Cancun. She’s that client with the colorful tale of woe I mentioned yesterday.”

“Female wrestler?” he guesses, as she grabs the deputy by his tie, shoves him backwards, and sweeps Veronica’s bag and all the papers from his desk.

“Don’t even mess with me, mama’s boy,” Loretta says, fixing her victim with a death glare. “I’m PMS-ing like you wouldn’t believe, and I am an FBI INFORMANT. You know what that means, right? IMMUNE TO PROSECUTION. I can do whatever the HELL I want if you don’t let these people go, and you can’t say a damn thing.”

“Loretta,” Cliff corrects, pressing a palm to his temple to contain the pain. “Light of my life. Still not sure you fully grasp what ‘immune to prosecution’ means.”

“She’s a stripper,” Veronica tells Logan, in an undervoice. “And, as you can see, not fond of authority. She was hauled in on a solicitation charge, but cut a deal with the FBI; the Seventh Veil was selling more than lap dances to its best customers. Unfortunately, her sister Tamara’s part-owner of the club, and Loretta’s testimony triggered a feud. I’m not familiar with the details, but there’s been a ton of escalating drama.”

“Are you really a lawyer?” the deputy asks Cliff, skeptical; Vinnie rouses, Pavlovian, at the word. He peers across the room, recognizes Cliff, and sniffs potential salvation on the wind.

“McCormack, my old friend and legal counsel!” he calls. “Fancy meeting you in a place like this!”

“In a courthouse?” Cliff calls back, voice flat. “What are the odds?”

“You want to help a pal clear up an innocent misunderstanding?” Vinnie asks. “Maybe drive me to the hospital, after?”

“Cliff wouldn’t represent you if your ass was on FIRE,” Loretta tells Vinnie, tossing magazines off the coffee table with a virulent look at the deputy. “I’ll bet you’re guilty on all charges and then some. And you’re the shittiest tipper I’ve ever met.”

“True, but WE’VE been wrongfully incarcerated!” Veronica shouts, over everyone else. “We’re kidnap victims under false arrest! This is my lawyer; and if I’m not released into his custody, I swear to God my rich boyfriend will sue!”

“I sued a restaurant once because my soup came to the table cold,” Logan agrees. “I make Tom Cruise and his legal team look like pikers.”

“Sheriff!” the deputy calls down the hallway, as Loretta picks up the coffeepot and smashes it on the wall. “We have a situation out here!”

The hall door opens; the Sheriff who questioned Veronica earlier ambles in, snacking from a packet of M&M’s. He’s in his sixties, maybe, with a fringe of grey hair beneath a cowboy hat, and a handlebar moustache. A beer belly hangs over his gun belt. He’s got a profile like an Edward Curtis portrait, clever pitch-black eyes, and his voice is pure country. “What seems to be the problem, Sam?” he asks, eyeing the mess with a lifted brow.

“Um, we got Miss Mars and Mr. Echolls’ lawyer here, sir, and, um, an associate. They’re wondering why we got their clients locked up, when all they did is get kidnapped.”

“Which one’s the lawyer?” the Sheriff asks, settling behind his desk, crossing his feet on the surface. He tosses a handful of candy in his mouth, chews expectantly.

“That would be me,” Cliff says, wearily. “But the question stands. Loretta, they’re cooperating. Please leave the water cooler in its upright position.”

“Well, here’s the thing.” The sheriff shifts food from one side of his jaw to the other, and tilts back the brim of his hat. “We’ve got what you might call conflicting testimony, and a lack of witnesses able to shed light. 

“Miss Mars over there claims Van Lowe and his partners busted down her hotel door, then stun-gunned, beat and handcuffed her boyfriend. She further claims the two of them were forced into a van, and removed from the premises at high speed. Mr. Echolls corroborates.”

“I deny that version of events, and there’s no proof I’m lying!” Vinnie calls. Millie shushes him.

The Sheriff gestures at Vinnie, both palms up, as if to say ‘See?’ “Mr. Van Lowe counters that he was hired to check on Miss Mars; apparently her dad feared she’d been kidnapped. Claims Mars and Echolls agreed to accompany him back to Neptune, to clear up the misunderstanding…then attacked, when the van reached the highway. His contention is, Clayton handcuffed Echolls to stop the hurting. Mrs. Van Lowe, Senior, corroborates.

“Mr. Clayton, unfortunately, is having a problem with pink elephants at the moment. His only clear testimony involved Mr. Echolls being a motherfucker. Which, you know, seems possible given Echolls’ behavior in lockup, but it’s something we can’t prove.”

“He’s a girl-mistreating piece of SHIT!” Norris interjects, fixing his Raging Bull stare on the Sheriff. “But he’ll quit leading Veronica on, with his smarmy grins and size-large condoms, once I’ve bashed in his BOY BAND FACE!” 

“Simmer down,” the Sheriff advises, and Norris growls but shuts up. “Attempts to contact Miss Mars’ father proved unsuccessful. But I know Keith Mars by reputation, and I have a hard time believing he’s involved in this nonsense. Then again, Miss Mars is clearly a person who’s never been told no. So maybe Keith loses his head where his little girl’s concerned?”

“He dotes. And I’m wondering, right now, if he’s the only one.” Cliff raises his brows at Veronica, who’s both watching him, and talking her new boyfriend down. Logan’s staring at Norris, anticipatory; his right hand flexes, limbering up. 

“The law frowns on fistfights in holding cells!” Cliff shouts. Logan glances at him, subsides sullenly against Veronica’s chest. Turns his face up for a kiss, which she gladly obliges.

Cliff shakes his head at Loretta, who’s gathered up the deputy’s pens, and is tossing them like darts at the Wanted posters. She gives him a look, but takes a seat on the desk, crossing her legs to showcase their length.

“As far as evidence,” the Sheriff continues, watching Loretta with amusement, “there’s Van Lowe and Clayton dressed as TV bounty hunters, which likely accounts for the busted door. We got reports of a gunshot, reports of a parking-lot altercation between Mars and Van Lowe, a high-speed chase, and Echolls in handcuffs when the cavalry arrived. We got some legal, registered handguns, a stun gun in Mars’s purse, and a billy club and seven throwing stars removed from Clayton’s person. Echolls’s and Clayton’s injuries are consistent with a two-way fistfight, and both have sealed juvie records. Van Lowe’s beat all to hell. The only wound on Mars is some split skin on her knuckles; apparently, she’s right-handed.

“We DID have witnesses in a golf cart, who joined the highway parade, and claimed at the scene that Van Lowe abducted Mars. However, those folks disappeared pretty quick, without giving their names, so their testimony’s not what you’d call impactful.

“If all parties involved agreed not to press charges, your clients would be free to go. Echolls is liable for damage to the hotel room rented in his name. Clayton might earn a reckless firearms charge, depending on what ballistics says. And Mrs. Van Lowe has enough tickets to lose her license; she drives like a bat out of hell. However, Miss Mars maintains she wants Van Lowe and friends ‘nailed to the wall’, Mr. Echolls maintains that he ‘loves the smell of lawsuits in the morning’, and Mr. Van Lowe insists he’s a law abiding businessman whose trust has been misplaced. Mrs. Van Lowe mostly wants a first aid kit. I doubt she grasps the gravity of the situation, to be honest. We currently got ‘em all locked up to keep the combatants apart.”

“I’m losing my license?” Millie frets, wringing her hands. “Vincent, do something! How will I get to bingo?”

“Don’t worry about it, ma,” Vinnie says. “I got connections.” He tries to pat her shoulder, winces, and clutches his lower back. “Jesus, I need a chiropractor.”

Cliff sighs, rubbing the spot between his eyes. “Permission to speak to my clients in private?”

“You can approach the cell,” the sheriff says, scratching his neck. “But I ain’t letting Mars loose ‘til she calms down. I mean, LOOK at Van Lowe. She beat the CRAP out of that poor bastard.”

Cliff walks up to the bars, curls his hands around them. “Veronica,” he murmurs. “Could you MAYBE give your hungover godfather a break, since it’s Thanksgiving weekend? Get your revenge later, in a less public forum? It’ll save you thousands in legal fees, and six months in court.”

“Norris pressed a GUN to Logan’s HEAD while he was SLEEPING,” she hisses. “Vinnie TASED him, with MY taser! I am REALLY PISSED OFF RIGHT NOW, CLIFF!”

“Nick Nolte here makes a good point, though, pumpkin,” Logan says, gently rubbing her back. “If we drop charges, we still have a day and a half of weekend left. You can work out your frustrations on me, without rushing, in whatever way you prefer. I’ll bet they have sponges at the grocery store, for instance.”

Veronica stares at him for a moment, nostrils flaring. Casts a calculating look at Vinnie, lightning fast. “I’ll need your help to get even,” she informs Cliff. “AND Loretta’s. You agree, without knowing the details, and I’m willing to back down.”

“More frightening words were never spoken,” Cliff sighs. “Fine, deal. Now let’s get your release processed, before Loretta manages to piss off the Sheriff. Or we might end up in this cell along with you.”

XXXXX

Forty-five minutes and some Black Amex magic later, Cliff ushers his clients into the dusty parking lot. Loretta closes her eyes and turns her face to the breeze; Logan offers his sunglasses to Veronica, dons them when she shakes her head. She extracts her own pair from her purse. 

“Will you drive us to the hotel, so we can grab our suitcases and car?” Logan asks Cliff. “The longer we wait, the more likely it is someone will auction my underwear on Ebay. And I’ve got a paper on my laptop that’s due next week.”

“All part of the McCormack Law package,” Cliff says, beeping open the lock on a white Cadillac. “I may be low-rent, but I’m full-service.”

“You go to college?” Loretta asks Logan, eyeing him up and down. She winks at Veronica, who wrinkles her nose. “You don’t LOOK like you go to college. You look like you go to PARTIES.”

“I multitask,” he says with a sly smile, and extends a hand. “Logan Echolls.”

“Loretta Cancun,” she says, taking it coyly. “You got a stylist, or you shop for yourself?”

“What, you mean this old thing?” He waves a hand at himself, encompassing the hotness, and smirks as Veronica narrows her eyes. He opens the front passenger door for Loretta, helps her sit, then does the same for Veronica in the back. Slides in beside her, and takes her hand. “I learned at my mother’s knee. That woman knew EVERYTHING about fashion. Why? You looking to switch careers?”

“Dancing’s a job with an expiration date,” Loretta says, as Cliff climbs in and cranks the engine. “I want to diversify.”

“Good call,” Logan presses a kiss to Veronica’s temple, and she smiles at him, mollified. “Make your name while you’re young, and your look’s in demand. I was impressed by the way you terrified that cop; in-your-face aggression’s a must, when coping with Neptune trophy wives.” He tilts his head, considering, then grins. “Oooh, you know who REALLY needs wardrobe help? Mrs. Richard Casablancas. She wore opera gloves with a nylon top the other day. Tell you what, I’ll introduce you, as payback…since you drove four hours to aid us, in our hour of need.”

“I like this kid better than the pasty-faced one with the zip-up sweaters,” Loretta tells Veronica. “NEVER trust white boys with Roman Emperor hair who try to talk street.”

“Never trust ANY boys,” Cliff corrects, tuning the radio to REO Speedwagon. “We’re all pigs, and I speak from first-hand knowledge.”

“I trust the ones I understand,” Loretta says. “Like you. Which is why you’re my man, no matter WHAT Tamara thinks. And this kid right here, I could maybe trust him too. He knows everyone wants what he’s got. He slinks around showing a hint of teeth, but he ain’t hitting on me while he holds Veronica’s hand. And he’s fully aware all his rich friends are assholes. Those are good signs.”

“I doubt Keith will be mollified by your character analysis,” Cliff says, dryly. “Considering he sent Van Lowe and Clayton to go off on this guy the way you did on the Suds and Duds.”

“Loretta used a baseball bat to break the change box open,” Veronica confides to Logan. “And then she went after the machines. The washateria was never the same.”

“Goddamn dryer stole my quarters,” Loretta says darkly. “But I showed ‘em. Nobody messes with Loretta Cancun.”

“I smashed a cop car with a baseball bat once,” Logan offers. “Guy I knew raped my friend Parker. I needed to get arrested quick, so I could beat the crap out of him in his jail cell.”

“Okay, it’s official, I like this guy,” Loretta says, eyeing him up and down. She leans out the window, and yells back at the police station. “You hear me, you dumbass cops? You best step OFF, because this guy’s legit!”

“I’m taking Loretta to Rodeo Drive, and bankrolling her stylist business,” Logan tells Veronica under his breath. “Watching her wipe the floor with Kendall is going to make my YEAR.”

XXXXX

“One thing you can say about luxury hotels,” Logan mutters, pocketing Loretta’s gold business card while Veronica waves goodbye. “They have a rapid turnaround, when it comes to hushing up disaster.”

The pool bungalow is a hive of activity. A goateed handyman in coveralls lackadaisically hangs a new door. Another guy’s plastered over the bullet hole, and is opening a can of paint. Two maids bustle around the room, scrubbing and pulling linens. Logan and Veronica’s luggage is nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” Logan says, halting in the center of the room. He does a slow three-sixty. “This is not promising. The paper on my laptop was worth a third of my grade.”

“You think that’s bad?” Veronica demands, as her angst levels rise. “My grandmother’s handwritten cookbooks were in my case. We’ll be the targets of a Sicilian vendetta! The fact that I’m her favorite will MAYBE rule out poison!”

“You’re SICILIAN?” Logan’s eyes widen, amused. “Well, THAT explains a lot.” He turns to the painter, a lank-haired, weedy guy two bong hits shy of incoherence. “Dude, any clue where our luggage went?”

The man shrugs; wipes an arm across his forehead, leaving behind a smear of beige. “I dunno, man. The room was empty when we got here. And TRASHED. What the hell went down?”

“Norris Clayton watched too much reality TV.” Veronica sighs. “Come on, hot stuff, let’s check with reception. Management probably had this handled before the dust settled. Efficiency is the watchword, in places like this.”

The girl at the front desk, however, fails to bolster this theory. She’s a late-teens redhead with a pierced nose, and just shrugs at their tale of woe. “I came on duty at 9:00,” she says. “I don’t have a clue what happened. I mean, I walked the repair guys over and let them in, but there weren’t any personal effects. And nothing’s stashed in the office, which is where we normally hold luggage.”

“So not only did your staff stand by while we were kidnapped, they let THIEVES into our room? Jesus, my lawyers will have a FIELD DAY bankrupting you.”

The girl’s eyes widen as Logan whips out his cell; likely her studied ennui’s never backfired. “Let me call my manager,” she says, extending a hand to halt his dialing. “Maybe he knows more.”

“You do that,” he agrees, smirking, and ends God knows what call. Cynically, he watches her whisper into the phone, arching sarcastic brows at her every frightened glance.

Veronica crosses her arms and observes, calculating. Logan’s rich asshole persona is a potential PI godsend. He could close out half her current caseload with a few well-placed diva tantrums.

After a long wait, a lanky guy in hotel colors saunters down the hallway. He’s got dirty-blonde curls, a beak of a nose, and a sardonic mien that bodes ill. “Jeff Ratner,” he drawls, approaching, and doesn’t offer a hand. “I’m the manager. I understand there’s a problem with your luggage?”

“If by problem you mean ‘it was stolen’ then yeah,” Veronica says. And okay, maybe she gets in his face a little, but she doesn’t like his attitude.

“Have you checked the Sheriff’s station?” Ratner asks blandly, with a faint lift of brows. “My guess is, the cops stashed it in evidence, and forgot to give it back.”

“Try again.” Veronica’s so mad now, she’s pretty sure she’s trembling. “If the Sheriff had our stuff handy when he RESCUED US FROM KIDNAPPERS, we wouldn’t need to talk to you.”

Ratner shrugs. “Two cops showed up ten minutes after the gunshot, and kept the room cordoned off all morning. I went in myself to do a damage inspection around noon, and the only personal effect I saw was a sock under the bed. 

“If you file a report of theft, both the Sheriff and our parent organization will investigate; but that process takes months. And I HIGHLY doubt my boss will cut you a check just to be kind, after you trashed his most expensive suite.”

“Nice! I’ll bet they hired you for your can-do attitude,” Veronica muses.

“It’s called realism,” Ratner shoots back, clearly exasperated. “You’re the ones who had the Jerry Springer meltdown, wrecked your bungalow, and ended up in jail, which I guess is what we get for renting to Aaron Echolls’ son. All I’VE done is follow procedure.”

Logan cracks his knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, and shows his teeth. “Wow, INTERESTING viewpoint,” he says. “Tell you what. We’ll reflect on the genetic basis of violence; you can ponder the aphorism, ‘the customer is always right’. THEN you should probably take a sick day and work on your resume, because you’re going to need a GREAT one soon. My lawyers will be in touch.”

He drapes his arm over Veronica’s shoulder and leads her outside, tugging gently when she proves recalcitrant. Once they’re through the door, he murmurs, “That guy was playing a shell game, Veronica. You don’t make it to management at a prestige hotel without knowing how to kiss rich asses.”

“He tried hard to convince us hope was lost,” she agrees. Logan beeps open the Range Rover, and she climbs in. “Which means he’s worried we’ll find something, if we keep digging.” She extracts her laptop from her messenger bag, plugs the car charger into the cigarette lighter, and powers it up. “As for the mystery of the missing suitcases, well….your guess is NOT as good as mine.”

She double-clicks a software icon, waits for it to load, and grins when a map appears, with a red flashing dot dead-center. “Voila,” she says. “Our luggage. I’ve got a pocket sewn into the lining of my bag, and I always stash a tracker there.”

“Paranoid!” he says, with an admiring smile. “So we can collect our stuff from…” he frowns at the map, squinting as he leans closer. Turns to her, puzzled. “Joshua Tree National Park?”

“I’d ask how you feel about camping,” she says, buckling her seatbelt, motioning for him to start the car, “but I’m pretty sure I can guess.”

“I just BOUGHT these shoes,” he groans, and revs the engine.

XXXXX

Veronica’s phone rings repeatedly as they drive across the desert. Each time, she checks the display, then tensely hits ‘ignore’. 

“You have a lot more self control than I do,” Logan says, watching her vibrate from the corner of his eye. “I may never respond, but I ALWAYS listen.”

She snorts. “You’re just saying that because I’ve shown AMAZING self-control around you.”

He smirks. “In your defense, I’m irresistible. I mean, even Eve chose a snake over the one nice dude on Earth.”

“Probably he wore black leather, and was good with his tongue,” Veronica says drily, and Logan chokes on a laugh. “Fine, I’ll listen. But I’m warning you now, this will likely make me MORE mad.”

She presses the voicemail button, sets the phone pointedly to ‘speaker’, and drops it in the cup holder. The automated menu warns of twenty-seven messages, and then her dad comes on line.

“Veronica, I’m very concerned that you haven’t called back. Please let me know what time you’ll be arriving, and where you are.” 

“Veronica, I know Logan Echolls seems to be doing you a favor, but he does not have a good reputation. Call me within the next hour. Don’t make me activate your tracker.”

“Like father, like daughter,” Logan mutters, and Veronica smacks his arm.

“Veronica Anne Mars. You’re at a Death Valley hotel in a room registered to Logan Echolls, and it only has one bed. I know you’re too sensible to make a choice like this of your own free will. If you don’t call me back by midnight, I’m sending someone to check on you.”

“CHECK on me?” Veronica demands of no one. “Since when is ordering me abducted at gunpoint CHECKING on me?”

“Maybe Clayton and Van Lowe exceeded their mission parameters?” Logan suggests. He’s interrupted, though, by Grandma Mars’ voice, rasping forth from the phone at high volume.

“What is this I hear?” Grandma asks, like she’s shouting over an arena concert. “You’re having a night of sin with the boy from the television? The one who dates Paris Hilton? Veronica, you do not recognize your own allure. He will devour you like a CANTALOUPE, and then how will a normal husband satisfy you? How? These men in Hollywood, they have SEX appeal; they blind you with their wiles. BLIND YOU! Are you BLIND now, Veronica? Will you return to your family? Or will I see you next on that Laguna Beach, with the cell phones, and the miniskirts, and the Ecstasy? Just promise me, Veronica, you will never do this dancing where the buttocks shake, like your new Aunt is teaching Shirley. Learn from Al’s weakness, Principessa. Fancy undergarments lead down the road to RUIN!”

The next three messages feature Grandma yelling in Italian, and cursing Vinnie’s name. “The good news is, you’re now a secondary target, Echolls. Even if you HAVE slouched your way through every teen reality program on the air.”

“To my everlasting shame,” he says. “For the record, though, I didn’t date Paris Hilton. She grabbed me at a club and kissed me once, as a ploy to up sweeps-week ratings. Which, apparently, worked to draw in your grandmother.”

“Grandma’s avidly interested in all forms of vice,” Veronica tells him, wry. “The two of you have a lot in common.”

“Well at least someone in the Mars family likes the look of me,” he says. “When I’m not framed by a rifle sight, that is.”

“You get those recipe books back, you’ll earn her undying gratitude,” Veronica says. “Unlimited home-cooked meals, and you’ll shift from the ‘rich fornicator’ category to ‘good provider’. You might have to endure some undressing with the eyes, though, if these messages are any indication. She’s called you a ‘uomo virile’ twice now.”

“It’s a curse,” he says, and grins.

As they pass a sign that reads ‘Four hours to Joshua Tree National Park’, an unfamiliar male voice comes over the line.

“Hello, is this the voicemail for Miss Veronica…Mars? Honey, does this say Mars? The handwriting is pathologically tiny. Yeah, Miss Mars, I just want you to know we have your suitcases. My name’s Leon Brankowski…you might have seen the wife and I following you in the golf cart, when you had your unfortunate incident earlier? Yeah, honey, in a minute. We went back to the hotel after the police came, and saw some jerkoff digging through your suitcase; we knew he was up to no good, because of all the lurking. The cop on duty was worthless, wandered away from his post the minute he smelled donuts. So we said, let’s gather up her stuff, keep it safe. Only…in a MINUTE honey!...we had to leave, on account of Cosmo insists our ceremony happen right at sunset. You can call me tonight around nine, though, and we’ll for sure get your luggage back to you. All right, Rebecca. YES I’ve got the drum! AND the maracas. Sorry Miss Mars, gotta go.”

“What the hell?” Logan wants to know. “Who lurked, furtively? And how did this dude get your number?”

Veronica gives him a look and snaps the cell shut…she’s heard enough messages for the time being. “Because, like all non-celebrity humans, I put a TAG on my suitcase, featuring my name, address and phone number?”

He makes a face at her, and she smirks. “I know my proletarian ways are strange, Echolls. Imagine a world where platinum credit cards and private jets don’t exist, and lost possessions cause actual financial strain.”

“Pffft. Platinum cards are D-list,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. She tries not to laugh, but fails.

XXXX

Despite a side trip to Starbucks, Veronica dozes off, lulled by exhaustion plus hours of monotonous beige-and-grey. She wakes when Logan draws his knuckles down her cheek and murmurs, “We’re here.”

She smiles at him, languorous; then remembers where ‘here’ is, and struggles upright. “Of course, operation luggage retrieval.” She coughs, gravel-throated, and squints to read the road signs. “Visitor’s center’s ahead and to the left. We should stop and get a map and water, in case we have to go hiking.”

“Seriously?” Logan sighs. “I would have vetoed this trip, if I’d known it meant nature walks. I’m really not a fan of granola adventures.”

“You’re a SURFER,” Veronica counters, stretching. “And I’ve seen you naked. You’re getting a ton of exercise SOMEWHERE.”

“Yes, but the ocean washes away sweat,” he says, pained, and she shoots him with a finger gun.

Fifteen minutes later, they’ve got Gatorade, a map, bug spray, and hats. Veronica’s purchased a baseball cap for herself, and a Crocodile Dundee style for Logan that actually makes him flinch. “My hair?” he protests, weakly, but dons it with a groan.

She boots up her computer, and double-checks the tracker. “That way,” she says pointing. “Through the arch, along the California Riding and Hiking Trail. Looks like the Brankowskis made camp at the bottom of this hill. It’s a two-mile walk, city boy, so maybe leave your jacket in the car?”

Logan slumps, drinks a sip of Gatorade. Surveys the flat beige landscape, dotted with alien trees, cacti, and giant round rocks. “Can’t we just get a hotel room, Veronica? Or go to a restaurant, and stroll some quaint boardwalk, holding hands? We could call this guy back at 9, like he suggested, set up a meet. If the handoff doesn’t happen by Monday, that’s life, right? Any sane professor would grant me an extension.”

“Theft by tourist?” Veronica asks. “How believable an excuse IS that, academically speaking?”

“Very, if you’re me,” he says. “I’m only famous for being famous, and I’ve had four stalkers.” 

He gazes at her, solemn, and she gazes back…trying to express without words that she doesn’t TRUST strangers. She wants to retrieve her things NOW; because karma hates her, and lurks unseen, poised to strike. His expression softens, and she can actually SEE the moment he gives in.

“Fine,” he says, with a sigh. “I’m powerless to resist, when you make that face. But if Lee Van Cleef captures us, and buries us neck-deep for ants to eat? YOU get all the blame.”

“We’re in a NATIONAL PARK,” Veronica says. “There are PUBLIC TOILETS and BARS here. And probably a hotel where I can ravish you, once I get my lingerie back.”

“There’s DIRT, too,” Logan counters. “And BUGS. Possibly even wild ANIMALS.”

“Well prepare for a meet-and-greet with all of the above,” she advises. “Because we have to get going now, if we want to be back by dark.”

Logan extracts the keys from the ignition, climbs out, and reluctantly removes his jacket. Makes a big deal out of adjusting his hat’s chin strap, and shoves Gatorades into his pockets. He dons his sunglasses again, crosses his arms, and with a sardonic sweep of his hand, gestures for her to lead the way.

She rolls her eyes and does… shakes the map on which she’s marked the luggage open, with a theatrical rustle. “OK we walk through this arch, cross a wash, and there should be a sign in a couple hundred feet. We’ll turn left there, and climb an easy slope for about a mile. Then it’s downhill all the way to our destination, right here at the edge of this canyon.”

“And you’re SURE we can get this wrapped up by nightfall,” he says, leading her by the hand down the indicated trail. “When all the things that bite wake from their afternoon naps.”

“I thought YOU were the bad thing that comes out at night,” she says, with an amused shake of her head. “What a difference a couple days makes.”

“I only bite hot girls with nice asses,” he says, unfazed. “And my policy is to wait until they beg.”

“Hmmm.” She tucks the map away. “We might encounter a FEW of those on the trail. But mostly it’ll be rabbits, roadrunners, and big-horned sheep. Maybe some lizards and birds. You’re not scared of THOSE, right?”

“Enh. Sheep are fat, and they smell bad, but I could probably wrestle one down. It’s the wolves that PREY on the sheep I’m concerned about. And the MOUNTAIN LIONS.”

“Aw, don’t worry boo-boo. If any wolves come close, I’ll karate chop them while you flee.” She fakes a kung fu move, wrinkling her nose. Logan gazes down at her with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

“Quit being adorable,” he says, the corner of his mouth crooking. “I’ll have to find a flat rock and do you, and my ass will get sunburned.”

She laughs, buoyed by the thought. “Just think of this as a quest,” she tells him, motorcycle boots scuffing up puffs of dust. “We’re Wild West Adventurers, searching for robbed-stagecoach buried treasure.”

He holds his hands up before him, framing her in an imaginary movie shot. “Fade in on the tiny gunslinger, cigarillo clamped between her teeth,” he narrates. “She tosses her serape over one shoulder and smokes, as she contemplates the Uncrossable Desert. Somewhere amidst the scrub and dust is the devil who stole her Grandmother’s recipes. He’s as merciless as the wasteland that lies before her; but he never counted on the opponent known only as…Bobcat. He’ll learn to fear the name, my friends. Or he’ll DIE.”

“BOBCAT?” she demands, exasperated, as she extracts and checks the map. “Can’t I be something more intimidating? El Lobo? La Reina? The Girl With No Name?”

“Nope,” he says. “The whole genius of you is that you look darling and harmless and completely pattable. Until you STRIKE.”

“Whereas YOU look like what you are…a WOLF. But you somehow disarm everyone anyway, thanks to almost-lethal levels of charm.”

“Our heroine’s loins tingled at the sight of the mysterious stranger,” he intones, as she veers into the left turn, and he saunters along after. “But she would not be diverted from her quest. For she is a high plains drifter—a lonesome traveler—and she’ll defeat El Diablo, no matter the cost.”

Veronica rolls her eyes so hard she almost passes out, secretly entertained. Logan begins to whistle the theme for ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’. Then he stumbles back, catches himself on a mile marker sign, and yells “Jesus CHRIST!”

“What?” Veronica asks, and he points wordlessly at a four-inch-long scorpion, basking on a rock. 

She bursts out laughing, and he says, “It’s as big as your HAND!”

“It’s a BUG,” she says, dismissive, resuming the hike. “Don’t touch it, you’ll be fine.”

“Clearly you’ve never had a giant animatronic scorpion fall on you,” he accuses. “Or you’d be singing a different tune.”

“And when did this trauma derail your life?” she asks.

“I was seven,” he says. “On the set of the Perseus movie that won Dad his first Oscar. I was spying on his co-star slash love interest, who enjoyed sunbathing topless, and narrowly escaped death by special effect. I still bear emotional scars.” 

“Clearly no lessons in perviness were learned,” she says, sneaking a sideways glance at him. She likes the way he clowns to entertain her, offers glimpses of his well-hidden childhood. It makes her feel…special. She’s getting to know a Logan Echolls few realize even exists.

“Hey, I figured out something VITAL that day,” he objects. “When perving, always watch your back.” He glances behind them, breath coming slightly faster as they climb uphill. “I should have taken a cell phone photo. Nobody’s gonna believe that thing was real.”

“If they buy you hiking a nature trail of your own free will, they’ll believe ANYTHING,” she says, and he nods, considering.

“Only for you, Bobcat.” He lays a palm against her forehead like he’s checking for fever. “Hey, you’re kind of red, and you’re panting. You want a drink? It’s important in this climate to hydrate.”

She takes a Gatorade, seats herself on a nearby rock. They’re at the crest of some rolling foothills, with a clear, unobstructed view of the park. A smoke-scarred row of mountains lies to the east; directly ahead is a gravelly downhill slope. It ends in arrays of boulders, which border a stretch of sand. “SOMEONE knows more than he lets on about desert survival.”

“Nah, I’ve just been to Coachella,” he says. “It’s right over that hill. Girls with no bras and flower crowns, bands and beer all day. All Young Hollywood turns out. It’s my natural habitat.”

She leans her head against his shoulder, sips her drink. The sun beats down relentless, soaking into her clothes, and a trickle of sweat runs between her breasts. “I don’t want this weekend to end,” she admits.

He kisses her temple. “You could always kidnap ME,” he suggests. “Prolong the experience.”

“Maybe I will,” she says. “It’d be fun to have you at MY mercy, for a change.”

“Ooh.” He pretends to shiver. “I LOVE it when you talk dirty.”

He puts an arm around her, bends to her mouth; they kiss gently, savoring warmth and taste. Their hats knock together, hers comes off, and he curls both big hands around her skull to hold her steady. His lips wander, caressing her forehead, chin, cheekbone, eye. She sighs, and the starburst feeling in her chest returns, warmer and bigger. She knew from the start that he was sexy as hell, but she never expected aching sweetness.

“Our destination must be near,” he whispers, stroking her throat with his fingertips. “I smell smoke.”

“We’re still half a mile away.” She convinces her eyes to open, scouts their surroundings. “It’s those people way off in the canyon,” she says, picking up her hat and pointing with it. “Looks like they’re….dancing? In some kind of pattern, with torches, maybe?”

“Can’t be Winter Solstice,” he says, matter-of-fact. He’s probably seen a hundred batshit religions come into fashion. “That’s several weeks away.”

“Regardless, someone ought to stop them, before they burn the park down. We’ll report it on our way out.” Veronica stands, so Logan does; she smacks him in the ass with her hat, dons it. “Come on, babycakes, let’s get moving. We still have to hoik our luggage two miles back to the car, and it gets dark early, this time of year.”

“The end of our quest is nigh,” he says. “The Girl With No Name scents victory on the sage-scented wind.”

“MUCH better nickname,” she sing-songs, as they set off down the hill. He takes her by the arm, so she doesn’t slip on loose gravel. “Does that mean you’re El Lobo? Or would you rather be Snake?”

“Duh,” he says. “Black leather and diving skills, remember? I’ll be happy to give you a refresher course on why the moniker suits me.”

“Mmmm, I like the way you think.” She checks the map. The campsite should be just beyond the clump of boulders below.

“The MINUTE we escape this episode of Survivior,” he promises. “I’ve got a tree full of shiny red apples, just for you, baby.”

“You know, I couldn’t help but notice, your Range Rover has an EXTREMELY spacious back seat ….” she skids on a spill of pebbles, mid-sentence, yanking him off balance. They go scrambling down the hill, windmilling for balance, and land in a heap at the bottom, her on top.

“OR we could just fool around here,” he suggests, grinning up at her, curving his palms around her ass. “Really, Veronica, all you had to do was ask.”

She smiles; she’s not hurt, and he doesn’t seem to be, either. But just as she’s preparing to succumb, she’s distracted by a shushing, shivery sound. She goes motionless, gripping his arm. “Logan.”

“What?” he asks, tensing. “Are you scraped up?”

“Do you hear rustling? Like, very faint?”

He cocks his head, shakes it. “Like the wind brushing playfully through the leaves? Or like an artfully concealed mountain lion, poised to attack? Because I prefer the first kind of rustling.”

She stands as quietly as she can, and he follows suit; puts a hand on her shoulder and eases past, so he’s in the lead. 

They creep around the boulders, and find a makeshift camp, pitched in the lee of the pile. A fire pit’s been built from rocks the size of her hand, around which four tents are clustered. The flaps are pulled back, to let in the breeze, interiors shielded by screens from creepy-crawlies.

One of the tents is screenless, however, except for a few shreds of gnawed fabric. Past the torn curtain, Veronica spots her suitcase, lying open on a sleeping bag, clothes strewn everywhere. 

In the middle of the tent, curled into a loaf, sits a brown big-horned sheep as large as a tiger. And it’s placidly, patiently chewing through the Ziploc that protects Volume Two of the Mars Recipes. 

“Holy shit!” Logan says. He whips out his cell phone, and snaps a picture. “That’s a sheep? What is this place, the Land that Time Forgot?”

“It’s eating the cookbook!” Veronica hisses. She gives Logan a shove. “You’re the one who wrestles these things. YOU chase it off!”

“I could take down one of the normal white fluffy ones,” he protests. “But THAT’S a mutant. That sheep’s on steroids like your biggest fan Norris.”

“You want to be Snake, in the car later?” she demands. “You get my cookbook NOW.”

He picks up a rock, lobs it cautiously into the tent. The animal pauses to give it the sniff test, then resumes pillaging the Ziploc.

“THAT’S your best effort?” Veronica demands.

“Well I don’t want to HURT him,” Logan says. “I mean I’m a dick, but I’m not a DICK.”

“Maybe we should offer him something better than books to eat.” She rummages in her messenger bag, extracts a granola bar. “Here, try this. Wave it under his nose, or something.”

“Hey muttonhead!” Logan yells, brandishing the granola, earning a groan from Veronica. “Hey lamb chop! Look what I’ve got! Better that that boring old paper, even if it IS spaghetti-stained, amirite?”

He unwraps the bar, tosses a chunk sheepward. The ram sniffs it, snaps it up, and lumbers to its hooves. It tilts its giant horned head to one side, considering, and then ambles out of the tent. 

Logan makes sure Veronica’s still behind him, and murmurs over his shoulder, “I’ll lure him as far from our bags as I can. You go in as soon as it’s safe, get your stuff together, and put the valuables in my backpack. If we can lose the sheep, we’ll take everything. If not, we’ll grab the pack and run, OK?”

“Good plan,” she says, and kisses his shoulder blade. “For luck.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “The things I do for love.” He shakes the bar. “Here sheepy, sheepy,” he yells. “Chuckwagon time! Come and GEEEEET it!”

The sheep lowers its head and paws the ground. Logan breaks off a chunk, throws it. The sheep snatches it out of the air, consumes it in one gulp, and ambles his direction. 

Veronica skirts the beast with one last concerned glance, crawls into the tent, and scopes out the damage. Her suitcase is ruined; the ancient vinyl’s split along the upper seam, too frail to cope with adventure. She checks Logan’s Jansport for his laptop, stuffs the lightly gnawed cookbooks atop, pads it all with a change of clothes and lingerie. She tucks her toiletries into her messenger bag, shoulders Logan’s pack, and crawls cautiously out.

Logan’s on top of the biggest boulder, granola bar long gone. The sheep is making its giant-ass way towards him, head lowered, small hooves shifting nimbly from rock to rock.

Veronica tosses open the flap of her purse, digs for something, anything, food-related. She yanks out a pack of peanuts, waves it, yelling, “Hey!” and the sheep and Logan both swivel their heads.

“NO, Veronica!” Logan shouts, and the sheep turns back. “Yeah, that’s right, fucker,” he says. “Eyes on me. Keep on coming like the goddamned Terminator, until you get to the very top.”

The sheep snorts, shakes its head back and forth, and continues its approach. Logan watches, with an expectant expression. Just as the animal sets hooves on the largest boulder, Logan goes over the side, sliding down the steep slope on his ass.

He lands close to Veronica, eyes alight with adrenaline and laughter, and grabs her hand. “We’ve got to run!” he says, yanking her along, loping gracefully on long legs at a speed she can’t sustain. “When that thing makes it down from there, it’s gonna be pissed!”

“You’re insane!” she informs him, as he tugs the pack off her back, shoulders it. “Are you HURT?”

He shrugs, pulling her around a bend; the sheep-infested rock disappears from view. “I tore a hole in my favorite jeans. Maybe scraped my thigh? That was FUN, though! I felt like Bear Grylls. Like I could kill a giant python with my TEETH!”

“I would chew you out for unnecessary self-endangerment,” she pants, as they rush down a sandy hill and past another pile of boulders, “But you’re too damn fast, and I can’t BREATHE!”

He stops, concerned, and she inhales deeply. Bends at the waist, hands on knees, trying to suck more air into her lungs. It comes, but it’s acrid, burnt; and strangely, her eyes also sting. “Logan,” she says slowly, as the crimp in her side eases. “There’s too much smoke in my lungs to be caused by a couple of torches.”

He sniffs, and his eyes widen. He scans the horizon, lips compressing. “There,” he says, pointing. “You called it. Those idiots set the park on fire.”

“Damn it!” Veronica yanks out the map. “Where ARE we? Did you pay attention to our surroundings, during our Great Escape? We ran right off the trail!”

He shakes his head. “My focus was on evading monster sheep. I made straight for cover, so we’d be out of his sightline.”

“Search for landmarks,” she says, sharing the map. “Figure out our exact location. There are two miles, more or less, between us and the car; that’s twenty minutes travel time, if we know the route and run. And fire moves across grassland FAST.”

“I have a compass on my dive watch,” Logan says, extending his wrist. “If that helps.”

“Perfect!” Veronica draws a circle on the map with her finger. “We’re somewhere in this area. If we head northeast, we should run into the road eventually, but we’d move faster on a trail.”

“Those burned mountains were on our left, right before we slid down the hill,” he says, pointing. “And we passed that boulder just after we turned right. So I think we’re here. If we head straight north, we should hit Park Boulevard eventually; and THAT leads to the west entrance, where we parked the Rover.” He messes with his watch for a minute, points again. “That’s north. We keep the fire and the big row of cacti on our right, we should be good to go.”

She shortens the strap of her bag, so it won’t bounce as she runs, and takes his hand. “Let me set the pace,” she says. “I’ll go as fast as I can.”

He nods, kisses her knuckles, and they take off for the road at Veronica’s best sprint.

They pass no people as they run, but the sky is dark with birds. Jackrabbits are on the move all around them, and a flock of sheep thunders past, one bumping into Logan and spinning him out of the way. The smoke is thickening, making it hard to breathe. 

They hit flat wash after a few minutes of forging uphill, and Logan stops, yanks his hat and pack off. He hands them to Veronica and removes his shirt; grasps the neckline and rips it in two, with a wrench she’d find sexy under normal circumstances. He hands her half and says, “Tie this over your nose and mouth. Keep the smoke out, as best you can. We still have a long way to go.”

She does, he follows suit, then re-dons his gear. They take off again, picking up their pace, while the whooshing, crackling fire behind them makes itself known. The already hot desert gets that much more unbearable; Veronica’s sweating profusely, and beginning to feel light-headed. The light dims, becomes orange in character. It’s getting dark, and fire provides the ambient glow.

They round a curve, pass a rock outcropping with an arch on top, and Logan groans. “FUCK!” he says, pointing at the wall of flame ahead. “The fire must have jumped. It’s spreading from two directions now, which means it’ll cross our path ahead. Ronica, baby, I think we may be cut off. What do you want to do?”

Veronica scans the horizon, searching for any solution that gets them out quick; hears a faint, blaring honk in the distance. “LOOK!” she says, craning. “There’s a jeep over there, moving this direction. If we run towards it, maybe we can intercept.”

They go, full-tilt, crashing through low brush and leaping cacti; everything’s a shade of brown in the dim and ruddy light. Veronica steps on something that squishes, tries not to think about what it was. 

The jeep roars into view, green and brown, with the name of the park stenciled on the side. It’s driven by a stick-thin woman ranger, carrying a female plastic surgery victim, and a schlubby man. Logan screams “Hey! Help us!” and it shrieks to a stop, skidding sideways in the hot dust.

“Get in!” The ranger yells, and Logan climbs into the passenger seat, pulls Veronica onto his lap. She fastens the seatbelt around them both as the jeep takes off again, hurtling into a long curve on what feels like two wheels. 

“Hold tight, folks!” The ranger shouts, and the jeep bounces over a patch of rock, briefly airborne. “We’re heading straight for the highway! My boss just radioed that there’s an EMS truck parked there, and the fire crew has the ground saturated. The going’s a little rough along the route, but it should be a clear, straight shot.”

“You HAD to dance with ribbons!” the woman in back accuses; her companion looks chagrined. “Cosmo’s torch routine was COMPLETELY under control, until you swanned in with your stupid ‘rhythmic gymnastics’. And just LOOK how it turned out!”

“I was expressing my SENSITIVE side!” he snaps. “When I practiced in the yard, there was MUCH LESS WIND! And you know full well I was against torches as a symbol for initiative. CLEARLY torches represent chaos, which is exactly what they caused!”

“You’ll end up in jail,” the woman predicts darkly. “Then we’ll see where your sensitive side gets you. Jane TOLD me to choose Kaballah, when I was searching for a spiritual path, and I TOTALLY should have listened.”

The jeep jounces over some granite, shaking its passengers like Bond’s favorite cocktail. They cross a road, keep going. A service gate looms ahead, propped open; beyond, on a coned-off section of highway, are the flashing lights and milling bodies of the first-responders emergency crew.

“One thing about being kidnapped,” Veronica says, as their ride pulls to a stop, and the ranger climbs out. “It never, ever gets boring.”

XXXXX

Hikers rescued from the fire, and unable to access their cars, are ferried to a saloon/ gift shop a few miles down the road. For a price, they can clean up, make arrangements for transportation, and obtain food and drinks. By the time Veronica and Logan get treated for smoke inhalation and find a spot on the shuttle, about 30 people have congregated there. They mill around the room, taking turns on the landline, and power down size-large sodas.

Logan buys a green Joshua Tree t-shirt and khaki shorts, to replace his torn clothes; they look ridiculous with his lug-soled boots, but he shudders when offered Birkenstocks. Veronica opts for the jeans and Padres shirt she stuffed in Logan’s pack. When she returns from the ladies’, he’s got two milkshakes, four cheeseburgers, and three orders of fries spread out on the table before him. 

“I just realized we haven’t eaten today,” he says, unwrapping a burger and handing it over. “You must be starving.”

She takes a deep drink of her shake, moans when it turns out to be chocolate-caramel. He grins, and stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth. 

She’s halfway through her second burger, showing no sign of slowing, when a kind-looking middle-aged brunette taps her on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” the woman says, as Veronica turns, “But I have to ask…are you Veronica Mars? The girl who got kidnapped this morning?”

“I AM,” Veronica says, turning. Logan sets his burger down, focusing completely.

“Oh my Lord, I knew it. LEON!” the woman yells. “Get over here!” She pulls out one of the extra chairs and sits, all regret. “Miss Mars, I’m SO sorry. We took your luggage to keep it safe from that jerk, which turned out to be a HUGE mistake.”

Veronica’s eyes narrow as she scents intrigue. “Well, there’s no planning for natural disasters,” she quips, sipping her shake. “Can you describe the jerk in question?”

“He said he was the manager?” Leon, a hirsute, greying tank of a man, comes up behind his wife, rests his hands on her shoulders. Veronica gestures at the fourth chair, and he slumps into it. “Jeff something-or-other. He sneaked into your room while we were loading up our luggage. We KNEW he was up to no good, because he lurked behind the dumpster, while some girl lured the cop away with a box of donuts. Rebecca followed him, and saw him digging around in your friend…your…” he gestures at Logan.

“Boyfriend,” Veronica supplies, and Logan smiles at her.

Leon smiles too. “Your BOYFRIEND’S bags. She shouted for the officer, but he‘d disappeared with the donut girl, and Jeff Whatever heard her, and ran. So she marched into your room, packed up all your things, and put them in our car. We planned to meet you after the ceremony, like I said in my message, but then COSMO decided to dance with Tiki torches, the way he saw in Hawaii. Which, honestly. He’s a GROWN MAN.”

“What did YOU dance with?” Logan asks, resting his chin in his hand, his expression one of deep and innocent interest.

“Garden trowels,” Leon says, completely serious. “Rebecca chose flowers. We’re Earth people.”

“Mmm, I SENSED that.” Logan sits back, nodding. Points at Leon with a fry. “Something about your aura SCREAMS ‘earth person’.”

Veronica kicks him under the table, and he hides a smirk. “Well, all’s well that ends well,” she says, conciliatory. “We stumbled across your tent at the park, and collected our valuables, well before the fire started. All the irreplaceable stuff is right here, safe and sound.” 

She pats her messenger bag, and Rebecca presses a hand to her heart. “Well THAT’S a relief,” she says. “Thank goodness for synchronicity! You’ve had quite a day already, without losing your possessions in the bargain.” She acknowledges a woman who’s waving at her and gets up. “Leon, sweetheart, it’s our turn to use the phone. Ask Cameron to pick us up in his Humvee, will you? He should be back from his silence retreat by now.”

“Cameron drives like a bat out of hell,” Leon says, shaking Veronica’s hand. “Miss Mars, sorry to put you through the wringer once again. Good luck to you both.”

“Ditto,” Veronica says, and watches them walk away. She turns to chastise Logan for mockery; but he’s bent double in his chair, digging frantically through his backpack. “Something wrong?” she asks, concerned.

“Veronica,” he says, still searching. “You didn’t take anything OUT of here, right? Like, to make more room for your books?”

“Nope,” she denies. “Just stuffed my essentials in, then re-zipped. I checked for your laptop first, though, Logan. That’s all you asked me to bring.”

He straightens, slumps backwards with a sigh. Looks over at her, expression grave. “Yeah, my laptop’s right here, safe and sound,” he says. “But my Feelings Journal’s not.”

“Your FEELINGS JOURNAL?” she demands, with a disbelieving snicker. Because seriously, he might be cuddlier than she originally thought, but he’s not the type to incriminate himself in print. “OK, who are you, and what did you do with Logan?”

He rolls his eyes. “Remember what I told you earlier, about the anger management issues? I actually wasn’t kidding. I have to write in an electronic notebook three times a week, and email entries to my court-appointed therapist. Get arrested ONE TIME, so you can beat up an incarcerated rapist, and nobody trusts your self-control anymore.”

“I take it the information in this journal is sensitive?” she asks. “Like it’s an actual record of actual feelings?”

“Yeah, about my dad abusing me, and slumming it with homicidal meat carvers, and gaslighting my mother so badly she took a swan dive off a bridge. Jeff Whatever clearly knows who I am, and isn’t impressed. I’ll bet he sold that thing to TMZ for millions. I mean, it’s password locked, but how hard can that be to hack?”

“Ratner,” Veronica says, the muscles in her jaw clenching. “Our thief’s name is Jeff RATNER. And he is NOT getting away with this, Logan. God, your instincts about him were TOTALLY RIGHT!”

“How are we gonna stop him?” Logan asks, fatalistic. He’s drawing patterns in his ketchup with a stray fry. “The guy’s had all day to contact vultures in LA, make a sale. Meanwhile, my cellphone is dead, my lawyer’s off having family time in Napa, and I doubt my car even EXISTS anymore.”

Veronica cocks her head as a thought occurs to her. She rummages in her bag; produces a battered white rectangle. Shows it to Logan, with a glinting grin. “WE may not have the resources right now to track your journal down, and turn the screw. But we know someone who DOES.” She reads the inscription on the card, with relish. “Clarence J. Wiedman. Private Security Specialist.”

“He DID say to call if we ran into trouble,” Logan concedes. And they smile at each other, in perfect feral accord.


	10. You're Everything a Big Bad Wolf Could Want

Forty-five minutes after they make the call, a Kane Industries helicopter lands in the parking lot. 

The pilot clearly knows Logan; he gestures, impatient, and the two of them pile in, donning headphones to muffle the rotors. The chopper lifts off immediately, spins an effortless one-eighty, and lofts with purpose through the still-heavy smoke.

It’s chilly, as they wend their way Los Angeles-ward, too noisy for speech. Veronica curls into Logan’s side. He puts an arm around her, rests his cheek on her scalp. She watches, half-dozing, as the landscape morphs and spreads, sparkling gemlike in the black velvet night. As the city approaches, light pollution fades the sky to mauve.

They circle a glass-fronted skyscraper bearing the Kane logo, land gently on the helipad. The noise of the engine fades, and Logan starts awake. 

“Mr. Wiedman says to tell you there’s a car out front,” the pilot yells, even though the racket’s gone. “Just take the elevator to the ground floor.”

The building is a blur of crystal, leather marble and brass; it’s luxurious, but Veronica’s too tired to gawk. She lets Logan lead her by the hand to the waiting town car, and settles in with a tired sigh. 

The driver, a whip-thin grey-haired man with smile wrinkles around his eyes, shoots them a sympathetic look as he starts the engine. “Mr. Wiedman’s reserved a suite for you at the Hotel Bel Air. He’ll be in the lobby bar at 9:00. You two want music, or silence?”

“Silence?” Veronica lifts her brows at Logan, and he manages a tired grin. The driver powers up the privacy window, and glides into traffic. Logan stretches out along the bench, tugs Veronica against him spoon-fashion, and falls immediately back asleep. She curls both hands around his giant paws, and drifts off, too.

She dreams of fleeing fire, chased by sheep, and only wakes when the door’s opened. A cool breeze streams in, smelling of earth and…lake? She elbows Logan; he groans, but struggles upright. 

“I need a weekend to recover from my weekend,” he moans, as the driver extends a courtly hand to Veronica. Scrambles out after, and hands on hips, blearily surveys their surroundings.

The Hotel Bel Air is pink stucco, with slender, arched windows and a red-tiled roof. It sits on a wide swath of lawn, surrounded by palm trees and bougainvilleas. Off to one side lies a man-made lake, which sports three white swans. 

“Idyllic,” Veronica says to Logan, and he smirks.

“It should be,” he tells her. “It’s the most expensive home-away-from-home in LA.”

The driver points at a Saltillo-tiled path, which tracks a wall of windows to an arched Cantera door. “Front desk is through there,” he says. “The reservation’s in Mr. Echolls’ name. Have a good evening, folks.”

Veronica cuddles against Logan’s side as he leads her through the pink and yellow lobby, stares somnolently at the cheery fire while he gets their key. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, gazing tenderly down. “I’m tired too, but the day’s not over.”

The bar sits just past the free-standing chimney, an elegant space paneled in mahogany. Its floor is a zig-zag parquet, which reflects the pressed tin ceiling. Black and white photos of Tina Turner hang between brown leather chairs, and brass lamps shine golden light through the bottles on display.

Wiedman sits at a table, drinking beer, immaculate in his off-duty turtleneck and slacks. He rises when they approach, and pulls out Veronica’s chair. The lurking waitress approaches with a bright smile, pad ready.

“Coffee?” Logan asks Veronica, with a lift of brows.

“Lots,” she says. “Involving milk and sugar. A macchiato?”

“Triple espresso for me,” he says. “And keep them coming.”

“You’ve had quite a day,” Wiedman observes, folding his hands across his chest. “Arrested at 8:30 AM after a high-speed chase, rescued from a forest fire at 5:30 PM. Robbed, somewhere in between.”

“So no need to write Miss Manners, if we can’t fake perky,” Veronica says, with edge. It’s true she asked for help, but having her movements tracked is unsettling.

“Caffeine was wise,” Wiedman says, with the barest trace of amusement. “I’ve investigated the theft, and your problems are…pressing.”

He tilts the last of his beer past his lips. “Mr. Echolls, what did you do to alienate Chuck Rooks?”

“Chuck WHO?” Logan asks. “I mean, I alienate people on a daily basis, but the name’s not ringing any bells.”

“He taught briefly at your high school. I assumed your paths had crossed.”

“Aaah.” Logan leans back in his chair, his smirk turning sardonic. “Mr. ROOKS. No, I tested out of that class, freshman year. But he got fired for seducing a student, as I recall.”

“And Richard Casablancas, Senior?” Wiedman asks. “Richard Junior’s your friend. What’s your relationship with his father?”

Logan sighs, tilting back in his chair. “We made a few dick-measuring trips to the gun range. And I slept with his wife for a while, until she got a more lucrative offer.”

“I’ve heard this name,” Veronica muses, then snaps her fingers. “Opera gloves and polyester! I take it things ended badly?”

“They never end well, when Lilly gets involved.” Logan takes her hand. “Kendall’s pragmatic, though. She’s not my number one fan, but she wouldn’t burn a bridge this big.”

“The responsible party appears to be Rooks,” Weidman says. “He manages a nightclub in LA called Sympathy for the Devil, which is owned by Mr. Casablancas; it’s quite popular with celebrities. His sideline is tailing said celebrities when they leave, and photographing private activities. He sells incriminating candids of those who anger him to tabloids.

“Rooks has a network of informants at hotels across the state, including the Inn at Furnace Creek. Today at 9:12 AM, he received a 14-minute phone call from the hotel’s main office. At 4:42 PM, he signed for an express-mailed package from one Jeff Ratner, insured for a high value. The size and weight match the dimensions of your journal. At 5:17 PM, $500,000.00 was electronically deposited into Ratner’s bank account, from a shell company in the Caymans.”

“I KNEW IT!” Veronica says, teeth clenching with rage. “Ratner told us our case was hopeless so we wouldn’t suspect HIM!”

“He called me by name,” Logan muses. “And wasn’t complimentary. I’ll bet he planned all along to rob us, and Vinnie made it a piece of cake.”

“The redhead helped,” Veronica adds, eyes narrowing as she assembles the puzzle. “She lured the guard away with donuts, so Ratner could break and enter.”

Their coffee arrives. Wiedman orders more beer, Veronica stirs in extra sugar, and Logan chugs his drink, then hands back the cup.

“We saw no evidence of communication between Casablancas and Rooks,” Wiedman says, steepling his fingers. “But Rooks may have a standing order to spy on you. Thus far, he hasn’t tried to sell, so his motive could be blackmail.

“If you’d called earlier, I'd have the package in hand. As it stands, we’ve tapped the club’s security feed, and seen video of Rooks locking the journal in his desk. We don’t believe he’s cracked the password, or uploaded the contents. He has a meeting with a well-known hacker scheduled for 10:00 A.M.

“Should you wish to retrieve your property before the meeting takes place, his office door’s not tied to an alarm. However, you’ll need an impactful diversion. There’s security patrolling the floors, and Mr. Echolls is…recognizable.”

“Wait, WE need a diversion?” Veronica asks. “You can’t send a minion to make the grab?”

“Miss Mars, surveillance and tracking are risk-free for my organization.” Wiedman turns to the approaching waitress, uncannily perceptive, and accepts his beer. He waits until she walks away to take a sip. “We can erase our trail. Breaking, entering and theft are trickier. Any traceable crimes will be committed without my assistance.”

“Sympathy for the Devil is crawling with paps. It’s where wholesome actors go when they want to seem edgy.” Logan leans back in his chair, drinks down his second coffee. “It’s popular because it’s PR-friendly. If Rooks is trading secrets with gossip rags, his business is at risk.”

“So we create a diversion by revealing his scheme,” Veronica suggests, around a mouthful of whipped cream.

“That’d only get us banned. Celebutantes are known media whores, nobody listens when we cry scandal.” Logan drums his fingers on the table, thinking. “We need a REGULAR to make a scene. Someone who’s recently weathered bad press, and is famous enough to throw his weight around.” He grins, as inspiration dawns. “I know the perfect guy. And he just so happens to owe me a favor.”

“A big enough favor to come when you whistle?” Veronica asks, sipping. “Did you save his firstborn from jackals?”

“Oh, better.” Logan smirks. “Let me make a few phone calls, order some appropriate clothes. We’ll need jeans and t-shirts for tomorrow, too, so I can burn the abomination I’m wearing.”

“Get me socks and underwear, along with the cocktail dress,” Veronica says. “Everything I salvaged from that suitcase is currently on my person.”

Logan laughs. “It’s an S&M club, Veronica, albeit the Hard Rock Café version. The look you’re going for is ‘PG-13 dominatrix’. I’ll wear black and act like a dick. And fair warning, any cocktails served will probably resemble blood.”

Veronica’s brows lift; Wiedman cracks a smile. “I’ll leave you to your fun,” he says, tossing a twenty on the table. “The suite’s booked for a week on your Amex, Mr. Echolls, stay as long as you like.” He extracts a valet stub from his wallet, sets it beside the cash. “Present this at the stand, they’ll retrieve an SUV rented in your name. Return it to the Neptune Hertz, once you replace the car that burned.”

Logan tucks the ticket in his pocket, stands to shake Clarence’s hand. “I appreciate your help,” he says. “Even if I appear to have financed it.”

“And I’M grateful for the protective eye you’ve kept on the Kanes,” Wiedman tells him. “In case we don’t meet again, let this intervention serve as thanks.”

He nods at Veronica, who nods back, and strides off through the foyer, loose-limbed and capable. She watches him go, and hopes she never makes him mad.

“Let’s check out the room,” Logan says, offering his hand. “I need a shower in the worst way.”

She takes it and stands. He tosses a hundred on top of Wiedman’s twenty, and leads her upstairs.

XXXXX

“So which celebrity owes you a favor?” Veronica asks, as Logan ushers her into the suite. 

“Connor Larkin,” he says, tucking the key card in his wallet. He does a slow 360, studying the room. “Huh, they redecorated. WAY less floral chintz.”

The suite is fitted out in neutrals, spacious and cool. Black-lacquered, vaguely French furniture is upholstered in beige velvet, arrayed around the free-standing fireplace. The carpet and curtains are white, patterned with black geometrics.

“Wasn’t Larkin recently outed?” Veronica plops onto the couch and Logan sits beside her, paging through cell phone contacts. “After kissing his ‘Extreme Target’ co-star in the parking lot of the Ivy?”

“Yup.” Logan taps a name and squints at it…hits erase, moves on. “That was just a ploy to deflect attention; they’ve been together for six years, everybody in the industry knows. The real crisis was a pap, who infiltrated a pool party in Malibu. The photos could have wrecked his career, if I hadn’t smashed the camera. Believe me, he’s ETERNALLY grateful.”

“Was he caught in flagrante?” Veronica asks, intrigued.

Logan laughs, shakes his head. “Fat, and wearing a Speedo,” he says. “With new hair plugs on display, kiss of death for an aging actor. Let’s face it, Connor NEVER got roles due to talent.”

He nuzzles her temple, presses a button, and holds the phone to his ear. “Hey man,” he says, when it’s answered. “You in town?” There’s a loud, staccato response, and Logan laughs. “Dude, your job is a non-stop thrill ride.” He laughs again. “Listen, we’d all like to forget that fiasco in Malibu, but you should know…I just found out a friend of yours set you up. Want to show off your chops for producers, while making the asshole pay?”

Veronica lifts her cell, mimes a call. Logan blows her a kiss. She wanders into the bedroom, sets her bag on the dresser, and flops onto the mattress, which is the perfect softness for sex, followed by twelve hours of sleep. She sighs at the nine new messages, then dials.

Mac answers with an extra helping of holiday cheer. “Well, if it isn’t Veronica Mars! Why aren’t you mainlining manicotti, and playing with model trains?”

“Things didn’t go as planned,” Veronica says, drily. “Listen, do you have access to a computer? I could use your unscrupulous talents, and about an hour of your time.”

“Ooooh, are we doing crimes?” Mac asks, probably cracking her knuckles. “Thank God, I’m bored out of my MIND. We’ve been playing PICTIONARY for the last hour, and before that we watched FOOTBALL!”

“Well, let me divert you with a full-fledged Hollywood scandal,” Veronica says. “Involving theft, S&M, paparazzi photos, and vengeance-fueled blackmail. I need a web-based Lone Ranger to help me save the day.”

“Better and better,” Mac says. “Please tell me encryption is involved.”

“Whatever it takes to get into the bank account of one Jeff Ratner, manager of a Death Valley hotel called The Inn at Furnace Creek.” Veronica props her feet on the headboard; notices how filthy her boots are, and kicks them off. “He recently made $500k selling a customer’s diary to the paps. I’d like that cash diverted far, far away from his greedy little grasping hands. Into the coffers of some charity, perhaps?”

“Piece of cake,” Mac says. Veronica can hear her typing. “You have a specific beneficiary in mind, or will he be saving the whales?”

“How about the Joshua Tree Park Fire Relief Fund?” Veronica says. “There should be one soon, it’s been burning since dusk. Failing that, Bighorn Sheep Rescue will do.”

Mac laughs. “OK I’m fascinated, willing and able. But I want full disclosure on Monday. It sounds like you’ve been up to more than binge-eating.”

“It’s not WHAT I’ve been doing, so much as WHO,” Veronica says. “When I hang with Logan, chaos…naturally ensues.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Lilly Kane’s smoking hot BOYFRIEND Logan?” Mac demands. “The one whose back should be illegal in thirty states? Forget lunch, this conversation requires DRINKS.”

“Oh, we’re splitting a BOTTLE,” Veronica says. “And thanks, Mac. Way to be a pal.”

“Anytime, Bond,” Mac affirms, a smile in her voice. “And may I just say, on behalf of alterna-girls everywhere? You’re an inspiration.”

V laughs and hangs up, pleased that SOMEONE’s in her relationship corner. When she returns to the living room, Logan’s on the phone again. 

He holds up a finger and smiles as she settles beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Yeah, I like fabric you want to stroke. And Veronica’s edgy, but prefers a feminine cut. Use the Amex number I gave you, and have anybody difficult call my accountant.” He listens, lifts his eyebrows. “Excellent. You manage this hat trick for me, Loretta, and I’ll be grateful in all the most lucrative ways.”

He snaps the phone shut, favors Veronica with his tenderest smile. “We’ve got wardrobes on the way, and Connor will be at the club at midnight. They’re looping dialogue for that Space Pirates future debacle, but he’s gonna pretend to lose his voice.”

“I called my friend the hacker,” Veronica informs him, tracing small circles on his smoke-smudged knee. “She’s going to rob our friend Ratner of his ill-gotten gains. Nobody profits from exploiting you.”

“My hero,” he says, the curve of his lips turning naughty. “There must be SOME way I can show my gratitude.”

“Not until we bathe.” Veronica pats the leg she’s been stroking. “I like the way your sweat stinks, but I’m less fond of dirt. I’ll investigate the luxury bathroom while you wait for delivery, and take you up on the concrete thank-you once we’re clean.”

“I’m quivering with anticipation.” He kisses the top of her head. Sprawls his arms along the back of the couch, and appreciatively watches her go.

Veronica extracts her toiletries from her messenger bag, and shuts herself in the beige marble bathroom; debates the merits of a two-person rainwater shower versus an egg-shaped, free-standing tub. She feels like Cinderella, as midnight approaches. So she turns the shower on hot, wreathing the room in steam, and proceeds to enjoy the moment.

When she emerges, pink and scrubbed, there’s a gold beribboned box lying on the bed. Logan’s lounging in the chair by the fireplace, bare feet up, staring contemplatively at the ceiling. 

He smiles when he sees her, wrapped in a towel. Rises, lifting a matching box from the floor. Kissing her nose, he says, “Loretta’s six-and-a-half-foot, ultra-glam deliverywoman swears that contains everything you need. I’m gonna shower while you do makeup and dress. We should leave by ten.”

He does a skip-step-spin like he’s the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins, then saunters into the bathroom. Veronica shakes her head, and unties the red bow.

V’s seen Loretta’s attention to detail first-hand; but she’s still blown away by the box’s contents. The dress inside is black vinyl, sized to fit like skin, sleeveless with red piping and a mandarin-style collar. A zipper runs from the throat down between the breasts, then curves sinuously over one hip, and continues to the hem. A packet of shimmery gold powder sits beneath, with a note that reads, “Coat the inside before wearing, vinyl STICKS.”

There’s a long black wig with bangs in a mesh sack, gold skull-and-crossbones earrings and matching bracelet. The undergarments at the bottom are exquisite; crimson lace bra, panties, and garter belt, delicately embroidered with green leaves. Black silk stockings tucked in the bra’s cup have matching red seams. Shiny black boots complete the ensemble--they lace up the front, and sport hourglass-shaped heels.

Veronica pats herself all over with powder and dresses quickly, enjoying the silky textures. The vinyl is surprisingly comfortable. The wig suits her, making her skin paler and her eyes turquoise, and the overall effect is feline. “Betty Blue,” she murmurs, gazing at herself. She remembers Logan’s reaction to black-and-red, and decides to go dramatic.

She’s just finished elaborate liquid liner, and is painting her lips crimson, when Logan emerges, towel around his waist. “Hey, Veronica, can you grab my watch…” he begins. Then gets a look at her and trails off, dumbfounded.

She smirks and stands, and his gaze almost scorches. The room feels hot and close. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “It’s official. You’ll kill me.”

Veronica arches a brow, languid. “That good?” She spins, so he can see the back.

“I feel like Danny in Grease, when Sandy shows up wearing Lycra,” he says. “One good tug on that zipper and you’d be an even-hotter Bettie Page.”

“Wait ‘til you get a load of the underwear Loretta bought,” Veronica murmurs, sashaying closer. She rests a palm on his damp chest. “She gave your Amex a workout.”

His hand curves around her ass, and he traces the strap of the garter down. “If I make it through this evening without dragging you into some corner, it’ll be a fucking miracle.”

“Hey, I’M the dominatrix in this scenario,” she chides, unsuccessfully hiding her grin. “You’ll drag me nowhere until you BEG!”

He smiles at her, the big bad wolf emerging. “So this is war?”

“Maybe a skirmish. But it’ll end win-win.” She looks up at him through her lashes, toying with his chest hair. Trails a fingertip down, between his abs, towards the towel. 

His other hand lands on her ass, like he just can’t help himself. He squeezes, and his mouth drops open as his eyes shut. “Mmmm,” he says, a smile curving the corner of his mouth as he massages. “I’ll be fucking you for at LEAST an hour after we get that journal back. Maybe two, depending on how many times you’re able to come. Get ready.”

He opens his eyes, and the heat in them tells her he’s serious. He winks, kisses her cheek, and wanders off into the living room. She slumps against the dresser, biting her lip. 

If she’d had any idea, prior to this weekend, just how MUCH bad boys did it for her, she’d never have dated a ‘nice’ one. 

Logan strides back by, whistling, smirks at her come-hither sprawl, and shuts himself in the bathroom. She decides to cool off on the patio while he dresses.

There’s a wall of French doors running the length of the living room, which lead to an outdoor lounge. A fire burns merrily in the pink stucco chimney, and off to one side, a Jacuzzi steams. Upholstered pink easy chairs, draped with chenille throws, are scattered about for lounging. 

Veronica settles into one with her phone, admiring her shoe as she crosses her legs. She checks the time, then sighs, gazing at the voice mail icon. 

Her father’s always been her favorite person. They became a team, after her mom left, standing shoulder-to-shoulder against the world. He didn’t date for years, which must have been lonely, because parental responsibilities came first. 

She’s grown now, though, and takes care of herself. Until today, she thought he’d managed to let go.

Veronica HATES the idea that she might finally fall in love, only to have her father disapprove. It makes her feel torn; rebellious, for the first time, against the demands of family. It’s an emotion she doesn’t much like, but can’t seem to shake.

She’s still staring at her cell, lost in thought, when Logan emerges onto the patio.

He’s dressed to kill in black flat-front trousers, a v-neck sweater that looks kitten-soft, and a pine-green velvet jacket. His hair’s mussed and gelled into artful disarray, his sleeves pushed up brawny forearms; the fold-over straps of his round-toed black shoes buckle on the sides. By accident or design, he’s still wearing nail polish, and the combination of luxe and tough is devastating. 

She stands and he moves closer, like they’re magnets, attracting. When he’s close enough to kiss, he traces a finger around her lips. As if only cosmetics are keeping her chaste. 

“You want to guyliner me before we go?” he asks, smiling faintly as she sways closer. “Wasn’t that your particular fetish?”

“YOU’RE my fetish,” she says, hands splaying across his chest. “No enhancement required. But you look, in that outfit, like something I want to lick all over. With GREAT attention to detail.”

“Do tell,” he says, holding the French door open. “I’d LOVE to hear the specifics of this plan.”

“So would I,” a feminine voice calls, from the living room. “In fact, I’m all aquiver!”

Lilly rises from the couch as they enter; stands, hip cocked, arms crossed, and brows raised, like someone’s told a good joke.

The look of fury in her eyes makes Veronica’s skin prickle.

XXXXX

Logan remains calm; either he’s used to having his privacy invaded, or he’s an excellent faker. He flashes a caustic smile, rests a reassuring palm on Veronica’s back, and exclaims, “Aw, Lils. You always did know how to ruin a good time. To what do we owe this not-unexpected pleasure?”

He hands Veronica onto the loveseat, perches on the arm. “Or should I ask, to whom? Wiedman gave you a key, I take it?”

Lilly smirks. “Nobody’s on your side, Logan, when you and I fight. Least of all the trusted family watchdog.”

“ARE we fighting?” he asks, with mock innocence. “I thought you’d be booked all day, banging some Gallic dreamboat. I was courteously escorting your roommate to Grandma’s house, when our trip got derailed by crime.”

“And they say you’re no gentleman.” Lilly assesses Veronica’s outfit, casts a sardonic glance at Logan. “I didn’t even know they MADE Bondage Barbie outfits! I’ll have to stock up, since you seem to approve.”

“Lilly,” he says, sounding just a trace tired. “Go home. We can resume hostilities Monday, when we’ve had a chance to rest. Right now I’m on a schedule, and too busy for histrionics.”

“MAKE time,” she says, in her most dangerous coo, planting a hand on the couch back and leaning. “This was supposed to be OUR vacation, Logan. MY brother, MY boyfriend, MY Vegas holiday extravaganza. Planned to maximize MY pleasure. We rescued the Little Match Girl off the side of the road out of the goodness of MY heart, fed and clothed and housed her out of OUR wallets…and she repays me by leading you astray? No, no, no, no, no, this is NOT how Lilly Kane’s life works. You lied to me, Logan, ditched me in Vegas, and that’s against our RULES. We’re what’s left of the Fab Four, and no one else MATTERS.” She flicks another contemptuous glance at Veronica. “And as for you, Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt? You now owe me DOUBLE.”

“You OFFERED to buy me clothes,” Veronica says, temper fraying. “You WANTED to play High Fashion Makeover. You said ‘consider me your Fairy Godmother’, and ‘these earrings are practically free’. All I owe you is my thanks, which I already GAVE.”

“Haven’t you realized yet, Veronica?” Lilly cocks her head, like she’s genuinely curious. “Nothing in this world is free. And regardless, my generosity doesn’t extend to handing off lovers. I might SHARE, when the mood strikes, but I NEVER shitcan my favorite toys.”

“Logan’s a PERSON,” Veronica says, appalled. “Not a possession we trade like Pokemon cards.”

“Hmmm,” Lilly murmurs. “That wasn’t an apology. I guess I’m within my rights to turn you into a pumpkin.”

“Aaaaand this is why we fled abruptly, in the dead of night,” Logan interrupts, with a wry twist of his mouth. “Sometime in the last year or so, your carnal adventures took an ugly turn. I didn’t want you pulling your Droit du Seigneur shit on Veronica, so I removed her from your orbit. If you’re looking to place blame, I’M the appropriate target.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of anger to go around,” Lilly says, biting off words. “You’re so far in the doghouse you’ll spend MONTHS begging for scraps.”

“Have you EVER succeeded in making me beg?” Logan demands, exasperated. “Even when I was DESPERATE for the faintest trace of kindness? Here’s the thing, Lil; I don’t want to sleep with you anymore. I stick around because you and Donut are my oldest friends…literally the only people I know, other than Veronica, who could give a shit about my money and fame. I keep trying to move on, relationship-wise--and you keep sabotaging my efforts, in increasingly amoral ways. I got sick of that LONG before this weekend.”

He looks down at Veronica, face blank. She reads it as the cry for support it is, and offers a faint smile. “And then fate intervened, on the side of a highway,” he says, voice a shade softer. “I’ve got someone special in my life, now, who’s willing to stay. I won’t let you blow my drunk ass in a club bathroom, then cast her aside. She’s not with me for money, open to a threesome. Nor is she some naive high school student you can trick into hating me. Veronica treats me the way I like being treated…and believe me when I say, she can TAKE you. She only SEEMS like a princess.

“I’ve found the girl I want--and after this holiday, I’m confident she likes me back. You can’t stop that, or change it, or get between us, no matter how bitchy you act. I’ve never craved anyone’s pain the way you think I should, Lils…especially not yours. But if you won’t back off, and find a new Dangerous Liaisons partner, I’ll have to cut you out of my life. I’d regret that, because you stood by me when NOBODY else did. But I don’t want to play the villain, anymore. I’ve got my eye on the role of occasional assistant hero.”

“Oh, Logan,” Lilly says, and she sounds genuinely sad. “You’re suffering from delusions of goodness again. This always ends badly for you, in three-day benders and bitter regret.”

“They’re not DELUSIONS,” Veronica protests, because she’s had ENOUGH. “I don’t know why you’re so invested in acting bad to the bone, Lilly, but it’s A GAME. If Logan wants to take his toys and go home, you might find that’s the healthiest solution. For BOTH of you.”

“And let me guess…” Lilly fiddles with a knick-knack, studying Veronica past the curtain of her hair. “You’re his new favorite plaything. How CONVENIENT!”

“No, you know what?” Veronica demands. “This is not about whether he and I are lovers. My sex life is nobody’s business. The issue is how a human should respond, when another human says ‘no’. Respect the line Logan’s drawn, Lilly. Stop pressuring him, whether you’re happy about his choice or not.”

She puts her hand over Logan’s where it rests on his thigh. He twines their fingers together, squeezes tight, all the upset not shown on his face transmitted by his grip. Veronica wonders if anyone’s ever defended him in his entire life.

Lilly walks over to a satchel on the couch, and tugs it fake-casually open, clearly familiar with the contents. Looks up in mock surprise. “So let me get this straight. The two of you are AGAINST coercion?” She lifts out a riding crop, flicks it through the air. Discards this in favor of handcuffs, which she dangles from one finger. “I’m sensing a disconnect.” 

“Those aren’t for sex,” Logan says, with impatience. “They’re for business, and it’s none of yours. Now shoo. Scat. We have things to do, and the indulging-Lilly timer just rang.”.”

“Business involving the two of you, plus my security consultant, but not me?” she asks. “Because, as a connoisseur of all things dirty, I’m somehow not qualified?”.”

“Yes, in a nutshell,” Logan says. “Door’s over there. Don’t let it hit you.”

“Oh, lover.” Lilly sighs, all regret. “There’s just no arguing when you get this way. Fine, I’ll give you space. But I want a kiss goodbye. For old times’ sake.”

She saunters closer, and Logan’s fingers tighten in Veronica’s. Lilly lays her hand on top of their joined ones, lifts up on tiptoe. He turns his face away, and she presses her lips to his cheek.

Veronica’s jaw clenches, as she debates attacking. Then something cold circles her wrist, yanks, and Lilly dances away cackling, eyes bright with mirth. 

“Enjoy your new togetherness!” Lilly calls, with a lilting laugh. She brandishes a tiny object, sweeps her purse off the foyer table, and swings open the door. “I know I’ll enjoy imagining it! Oh, and don’t bother asking Clarence for help! He does what I tell him, which means he won’t take your calls.”

She skips out, and the door thunks shut behind her. Veronica looks down.

Logan’s wrist and hers are handcuffed together, and Lilly’s just made off with the key.

“Well, fuck,” Logan says, gazing morosely down. “It’s not that I’d MIND being bound to you, ordinarily. But it’ll sure put a crimp on our breaking and entering.”

“Don’t worry,” Veronica tells him. “I’m a PI, remember? I have a universal key in my purse. A girl needs to be prepared.”

She leads Logan by the hand back to the bedroom; he lets his fingers dangle as she searches through her bag. 

“God DAMN it!” she growls, when she comes up empty-handed. “Vinnie Van Lowe robbed me! He took my key ring, and the lock pick set I ordered off the internet. Also my root-beer-flavored lip balm, which is just…disturbing. I hate to break it to you, sweet cakes, but we’re screwed.”

“Well, at least we’re going to an S&M club,” Logan says philosophically, curling his palm around Veronica’s. He lifts their hands in a ‘YAY!’ cheer. “This’ll help us fit in.”

XXXXX

“You ready?” Logan asks an hour later, when they’re in line for the club’s valet. Veronica nods, nestling into him, still half-out from her nap on the way over.

“OK,” he says, cradling her to his chest. “Let’s review. We saunter inside, case the place, locate the office while pretending we don’t care. We wait for Connor to make his grand entrance. He’ll give me a signal when he starts his monologue, after which we have ten minutes to take care of business and run. No malingering.”

“Aye-aye.” She salutes and he kisses her, feather-light. His lips travel over her eyelids, making her sigh. 

Then he sits back, takes a deep breath and…changes.

His posture loosens, grows languid, his gaze goes opaque. His expression turns bored and amused, yet somehow deeply cynical. The corner of his mouth quirks, as he clocks her response.

Her Dangerous Stranger is back.

Logan uncoils from his sprawl, climbs over her out the car, whispering, “Don’t show fear.” His breath on her ear makes her shiver.

He helps her step down, courtly even with handcuffs; they walk arm-in-arm to the club, past a throng of camera flashes. Logan tilts his chin at the doorman, who lets him right past the velvet rope, and it hits home to Veronica just how famous he is.

Sympathy for the Devil is as industrial as a building can get, and still remain standing. The walls are cement, with rusty pipes that emit steam, and patches of cosmetically exposed wiring. The floors are also cement. Bare bulbs hang from creaky chains, and the tables are rest-stop concrete, topped with cans of black flowers. Sepia-toned Rolling Stones photos serve as décor; the music is dreary, with a side of sad. 

Veronica does her best to look like she belongs, as she moves through the expensive crowd. Logan slouches along not giving a shit, and is accosted from all sides. She’s seen him arrogant before, with Lilly. But she’s never watched him navigate the shark tank. He detaches hangers-on viciously, with the pithiest of insults, and she’s impressed all over again by his sangfroid.

There’s something very….Veronica hates to say ‘ordinary’, since the place is a hot spot. Maybe ‘mainstream’ is the word to describe Chuck Rooks’ fantasyland. A harried-looking woman in a black bustier is on the phone with her babysitter, discussing her kid’s refusal to eat peas. An older couple, bravely exposing their wrinkles, are taking ‘thumbs up’ photos near the Jagger wall art. The place reeks of perfume and nervous sweat; all in all, it’s disappointing. If she’s going to watch actors dress to impress, she’d rather do so someplace better lit.

“How is this club not condemned?” she asks, when Logan's blown off the HBO ingénue he claims not to recognize. She jerks as water drips onto their wrists, making the handcuffs jingle.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, leading her towards the bar. “Did you see the line to get in? This is ATMOSPHERE, pumpkin. The discomfort and stench just make it ‘edgy’.”

“If we don’t contract bubonic plague, I’m counting that a win.” She studies the cocktail menu. “What’s your poison? Bloody Mary? Hangman’s Curse? Death Warmed Over?”

“Vodka, bitters and St. Germain? I’ll stick to Scotch.” He gestures at the robe-and-cowl-clad bartender; orders Glenfarclas, lifts his eyebrows.

“Digging Your Own Grave,” she says, with a smirk. “Pomegranate juice, cognac and elderflower liqueur. Red, to match my underwear.”

His brows inch higher, and he toys with her zipper. “I knew I should have peeked in that box. I’m doubling Loretta’s bonus.”

“Unh-unh, don’t spoil your surprise.” She flicks his fingers away. Grabs the cocktail that’s set at her elbow and toasts him. “Subterfuge first. I’m guessing the office is up those stairs, near the VIP area. No one’s watching the hallway, it should be a cinch to burgle.”

“Try your drink,” he says. “Then we’ll head to VIP and do a little kissing. If anybody catches us snooping, we can pretend we wanted privacy.”

She sniffs the glass, sets it down with a grimace. “I just wish I understood Rooks’ angle. Sounds like you barely KNOW the guy.”

Logan winces as Enigma begins to play. Tosses his scotch back, making Veronica’s hand fly up. “He was just some young teacher who got caught sampling cheerleaders, and took his floppy-haired brooding elsewhere. And it’s not like I was the only one nailing Big Dick’s wife. He’s lining up a twenty-something replacement, I doubt he even noticed.”

“Maybe this is about money,” Veronica suggests, as Logan hands Bartender Death a fifty. “I mean, that HAD to be Ratner’s motive. It’s not like you killed his dog.”

“You’d be surprised how many strangers loathe me,” Logan says. “A dubious benefit of fame.”

Veronica watches an Elvira clone lead a man in rubber to the ‘Beast of Burden’ alcove. Sighs. “I feel conspicuous, sitting here chatting. We should have brought the props.”

“Done digging your grave?” he asks, and she nods. “Then decide who gets to be on top, during our diverting upstairs display. We’ve got a good half-hour ‘til Connor shows, and it’s best to always look bored.”

“I’m dubious about performing for this crowd,” she says. “It’s creepy how hard they’re all trying. That guy’s dressed like the ELEPHANT MAN, for God’s sake, how does he even…so WRONG!”

The lights begin to flash in time with the music, and incense accompanies the next burst of steam. Logan groans, rubbing the spot between his eyes. He grabs Veronica’s drink, swallows a slug, and hands it back, grimacing. “Good call ignoring that,” he observes, and she laughs. 

“Where do you ENJOY hanging out?” she asks, and tries a sip. It tastes like Robitussin.

“At home,” he says. “I’m more into comfort and privacy. And not mixing sex with religion.”

“Speaking of…” She leans back against the bar, pulling his arm around her shoulders by the handcuff. “Isn’t that girl making eyes at you Penelope Little? Former Disney darling, and star of indie hit ‘Fallen Angels’?”

Logan looks at the indicated curvy blonde, who’s paying zero attention to her conversational partner. He groans. “Showtime. She’ll lurk and cling all evening, if you don’t stake your claim.”

Veronica lifts her brows. “Yet another discarded conquest?”

“Hey, reputations don’t build themselves.” He strokes a finger down her cheek. “This PARTICULAR publicity-hungry starlet must be the key to our mystery, though. She’s the future Mrs. Big Dick Casablancas. And the polyester-clad weasel she’s ignoring is the asshole who stole my journal.”

“You’d better kiss me LOTS, then,” Veronica says, smiling. “We should lure him into a false sense of complacency, before we rip his world to shreds.”

“I like the way you think,” he says, smiling, and bends to her jaw. Caresses gently with lips, then teeth, while she tries to remember the mission. He nips her earlobe, nuzzles up the arch of her cheekbone; she curls the non-cuffed hand around his lapel, and imagines him unzipping her dress.

“Logan Echolls,” the bubblegum voice of Miss Ex-Teen-Dream chirps, from somewhere off in outer space. “What are you doing down HERE, with D-listers and reality stars? And who’s your friend?”

Logan kisses V’s mouth, the softest tease, pulls away with a wink. “She won’t TELL me,” he says, picking up the disgusting red drink with his free hand. He traces her collar with the cuffed one. “She’s preserving an air of MYSTERY.”

“It’s not easy to keep secrets in a dress like that,” Weasel puts in, with a snicker at his own joke. “Kudos to you!”

Veronica narrows her eyes. Mr. ‘I like ‘em eighteen’ is skeezing on her; has his hand so low on his boss’s girl’s back, it qualifies as an ass-grab; and he’s already messed with her man. She needs to replace the taser Vinnie pilfered, because right now she’s feeling the lack.

“Where do you keep YOUR secrets?” she asks, temporarily repressing the urge. 

“Upstairs!” the blonde says, over-enthusiastically. She’s mooning at Logan like it’s half-off pie day, and he’s lemon meringue. “In VIP. It’s safe as Vegas, there, you know the saying. Come on up, I’ll show you ALL of mine!”

Veronica manages somehow not to roll her eyes. Looks at Logan, lifts her brows.

“It’s like Vegas, cupcake,” he says, with a smirk. “You had a pretty good time there yesterday, as I recall.”

“Remember the saying,” she warns. “Then satisfy my curiosity. I can’t IMAGINE what they’ve saved for the luxury zone, when the entry level’s this elaborate.”

“Oh, it’s next LEVEL,” Rooks says, with a grin that makes her feel dirty. He eyes Logan, smile turning both sour and smug, and adds, “All your secret dreams come true.”

“We should have at least brought the whip,” she murmurs, as Logan unfolds from his stool. He saunters behind their tour guides, handcuffed arm embracing her. “I have the compelling urge to beat this douchebag senseless.”

“Relax,” he says. “I don’t need a whip. Or even both hands. I’m more concerned about Penelope following us around, until you show an interest in her secrets. Which I should warn you, are mostly surgical in nature.”

“There’s a shocker,” Veronica says, as they reach the top of the stairs. “Next time we’re robbed by hedonists, I hope they’re less banal.”

He laughs, palm curling around the knob of her shoulder, and then Rooks makes like a carnival barker.

“Welcome to Wonderland!” Rooks says grandly. He gestures with both arms at the array of tables, and the smattering of people desultorily drinking. Except for the waitresses in bondage gear, and the angel-and-devil porn film playing on one wall, it looks like any club in LA on a Saturday night. 

Veronica wonders if maybe Rooks doesn’t get out much. Or is just used to hosting trend-followers, who are easily impressed.

“We’re allowed to dance on the tables!” Penelope chirps enthusiastically, eyes straying to Logan mid-sentence. She does a hip flick to emphasize, as ‘Paint it Black’ starts to play. “Want to join me? Put on a show?”

“No key,” Veronica says with fake regret, holding up their cuffed wrists. “Wherever I go, he goes, and that two-top wouldn’t hold him.”

Penelope shrugs, not-so-secretly delighted, climbs up, and begins gyrating in ways she no doubt thinks are sexy. Veronica sinks into a couch beside Logan, and battles back the urge to sleep. 

Rooks clocks Penelope’s pedestrian moves like she’s Venus rising from the foam. She smirks at him, popping her gum, and he demonstrates the floppy-haired brooding. “You know, Marianne Faithful was married, when she hooked up with Mick Jagger,” he tells Veronica, assuming a ‘wealthy impresario’ pose. “Jerry Hall too. She was engaged to BRYAN FERRY, even, but her love for Mick was just too strong.”

Logan sighs, loudly, and Veronica elbows him. Rooks scowls. Veronica wonders whether his resentment springs from Logan’s slights; or from the fact that Logan’s clearly the Jagger in Penelope’s eyes. “Wow, Bryan Ferry!” she marvels, although she has no clue who that is, making Logan smile. “What a sexy, SEXY man!”

Rooks’ sneer speaks volumes, but his gaze gravitates back towards Penny. She’s shimmying in Logan’s direction, while he ignores her to check his watch. “All the women wanted Jagger,” Rooks says wistfully. If he weren’t such a waste of flesh, Veronica might feel pity.

“Marianne Faithful,” Logan corrects, with lazy precision, because clearly HE’S not inclined towards sympathy, “worked her way through the whole band, before pegging Jagger as the easiest mark. And Jerry Hall dumped his ass for cheating ten YEARS ago. You of all people should know—bad things happen to guys who can’t keep it in their pants.” He stands, pulling Veronica along by the handcuff, and favors Rooks with his cruelest smirk. “Come on gorgeous, let’s find a private corner and get better acquainted. I’ve seen this floor show, and it’s second-rate.”

“There’s a little room in the back called ‘Play With Fire’,” Veronica says, pointing. Rooks watches them go, with a glower that promises retribution. “Since that’s what you’re doing anyway, might as well make it official.”

“Oh, whatever.” Logan pushes aside the flame-embroidered curtain, revealing a bordello-style alcove. He sits on the red velvet couch, tugs her onto his lap, and says, “Rooks’ pathetic motive is now obvious, and I’m not the threat he imagines. All we need to do is rifle that office, and then I’m permanently out of his hair. Let’s spend our remaining minutes discussing more interesting topics. Like your mysterious and intriguing fancy underwear.”

Veronica smiles, hooking a finger beneath the edge of her skirt. “What’s my incentive to let you look? How much is a peek worth, to a wolf like you?”

He smiles his dangerous smile, igniting a deep internal flutter. “Depends what kind of peek’s on offer.”

She inches the skirt up, showing the strap of her garter, a pale stretch of thigh. He nuzzles her ear, and she shifts the hem higher, stopping just below her sex. “It’s red,” she murmurs, head tilting back as he licks the hollow of her throat. His palm curls around the revealed slice of skin.

“You are all the best kinds of sex, wrapped in one shiny black package,” he says. “We can’t do anything I’d LIKE to, here, because the place must be lousy with cameras. But I’ll be lavishing those panties with attention once we get somewhere private.”

Veronica curls her free hand into his hair, kisses him for all she’s worth. Wonders how long it would take to locate and destroy Rooks’ spy tech.

He pulls away, breathing hard, and they stare at each other--chemistry this good should be illegal. “Miracle lipstick,” he says, tracing a thumb over her mouth. “It didn’t smear. Jesus, Veronica, I could fuck you right here against the wall and you’d still look just as polished.”

“Diary first,” she says, sounding breathless even to herself. “The world is FULL of walls.”

He groans, head falling back, lifts her, wincing, off his lap. Links their cuffed hands, and pulls the curtains aside. 

Lilly’s in the VIP lounge, dancing on the table with Penelope, chugging from a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“Well, hell,” Logan says, watching them rub up against each other, only one in earnest. “Should I say something pithy about the sins of my past? How much do you think she knows? And what type of trouble will she cause?”

“Any kind she can?” Veronica shrugs. “Hell hath no fury, etc. Must be why Clarence helped us off-duty, as a personal favor. I’d guess he told her nothing but our room number, and she followed us here.”

Logan groans. “Maybe she at least has the key?”

“Possibly,” Veronica says. “Is it worth going toe-to-toe, on the off-chance she’ll hand it over?”

He looks at his watch. “11:47,” he says. “Thirteen minutes to kill, if Connor’s not late. How can we reach the office without being spotted?”

Veronica scans the crowd. Spies a woman in a nun’s habit and a man in a Zorro costume, looking bored nearby. “Disguises,” she says, pointing, and he smiles.

Logan sidles over and taps the guy’s arm; leans close to whisper. “I’ll give you a grand cash for the costumes,” he says. “But I need them right now.”

The woman arches a dramatically lined brow; she has very full, purple-painted lips, and sports a distinctly non-religious expression. “Did a sudden urge to play bad Catholic strike?” she asks.

The man takes the mask and scarf off, hands them to Logan with a wink. He’s older, balding, and his look screams ‘well-heeled film exec’. “My guess is, doll, the kid needs a disguise.”

“See those girls dancing on the table?” Logan confirms, gesturing with a thumb. “They’re auditioning to play the blonde in my life, but the role’s already taken.”

The nun laughs, ducks behind the curtain Logan holds open. Strips off her robe to reveal a clingy cocktail dress, which perfectly matches the lipstick. She shakes a lot of red curls free from the wimple, and hands them both over. “All yours. But keep the money. I’ll get more entertainment out of watching you creep around, incognito.”

“You’re a saint,” Veronica says, saluting her with the wad of fabric. Logan dons the scarf and mask, then snaps on the man’s cape, concealing his jacket. “Metaphorically speaking.”

“Oh honey, you don’t KNOW.” The woman elbows her companion, who smiles down. “I only came here so he could network. My reserves of generosity are ENDLESS.”

Veronica gets stuck one arm in—she can’t put on the sleeve with a handcuff attached. Logan buttons it around the obstacle; mutters, “For those about to die…” and salutes Producer Guy with two fingers. They slink out into the club.

Lilly’s singing 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' at the top of her lungs, unfazed by the fact that she can’t carry a tune, and waving the champagne bottle in time. Penelope’s taken aback by her enthusiasm, but determined not to be outdone. Rooks watches both with hungry eyes. None of them notice Logan and Veronica as they skulk beneath the sacrilegious movie, skirting the table of soap stars. 

They’re halfway past NBC’s sexiest Head of Oncology (making out with the Head of Geriatric Medicine, who’s real-life-married to a teen-drama vampire), when a moustached man in an ill-fitting suit grabs V’s robe. “Veronica?”

She spins, taking Logan with her, and gasps, “Jerry?” Because God knows how many phone messages from her dad THIS will generate. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“I’m on a date,” he says proudly. He points at a 40-ish blonde in a fuchsia dress who reeks of disappointed dreams. “She knows the manager! Looks like you’re painting the town red too, huh? With…Logan Echolls?”

Logan makes the face that means he’s prepping a zinger, so Veronica steps between. “I’m working a VERY important case right now,” she tells Sacks, squeezing Logan’s hand. “I need to run. But I hope you have…as good an evening as possible, under the circumstances.”

“Hey Debbie!” Sacks calls, not listening, and beckons his date forwards. “Look who I found! This is my old boss’s daughter! She’s an amateur private detective, and she’s investigating AS WE SPEAK!”

The blonde looks Logan over and rolls her eyes. “Mr. Echolls,” she says. “All in black, wearing handcuffs and getting stopped by cops. Why am I not surprised?”

“Found another job, yet, DEBBIE?” Logan asks, silkily. “Have they been warned not to give you keys to the register?”

“I was framed,” the blonde says, going steely. Sacks looks back and forth between them, confused. 

“So was I,” Logan says, smirking, and Veronica yanks him away by the handcuff. 

“I’ll bet that woman’s got an interesting story,” Veronica muses, as she leads him along the perimeter. “I should probably do a background check, before my friend gets blindsided.”

“Just another teacher fired for unsavory behavior,” Logan says, waving a dismissive hand. “Business as usual at Neptune High.”

“Did you have any NON-criminal role models, growing up?” Veronica asks, glancing back.

“Lilly and Duncan’s dad never got CONVICTED,” he says, considering. “And my high school principal was always willing to make a deal.”

His elbow’s grabbed by an up-and-coming WB star, who plays a masked (and frequently shirtless) superhero. “Dude!” the guy shouts, shaking back a mop of bleached hair. “When did you get here? And who’s the BABE? You MUST drink!”

He shoves Jello shots into their hands. Logan sighs, swallows his and then Veronica’s, while the whole table cheers. Pats the guy on the back, and drags V onward. They’re at the corner nearest the office when Connor Larkin appears. 

He sweeps upstairs in head-to-toe blue Armani, surrounded by an extensive entourage. At 35, his lifestyle has begun to take a toll. He’s lovingly maintained, personal-trainer sculpted, with surgically taut skin and lifts in his shoes. But up close, the effect is more Ken Doll than Rugged Action Hero.

Connor storms up to Rooks like Joan Collins in a mood, and snaps, “I have a bone to pick with you!” He accentuates with dramatic finger point, and the crowd comes to attention.

Rooks straightens in his chair, looks left and right as if searching for a savior. But Connor’s got his monologue memorized, and he’s on a roll; not even an Access Hollywood crew would stop him.

“This club was supposed to be my safe space!” Connor accuses, index finger trembling. “It’s not very safe, though, IS it? You sent paparazzi to follow me to my HOME! Well, not MY home, actually, I was staying with a friend. Or at least a friendly acquaintance. But that doesn’t matter! What matters is, it was uncalled for, and the paps took PHOTOS! My abs are my TRADEMARK, Chuck! I can assure you, I’ll have my day in COURT!”

“Connor, I promise, what happens in Sympathy, stays in…” Rooks begins, but Connor’s having none of it.

“Oh, don’t BOTHER!” he shouts, waving his arms, getting his rant going. Rubberneckers close in, which he clearly finds gratifying. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth! I’m ASHAMED you’ve shaken my manhood thus! Blast and fogs upon thee!”

“That’s our cue,” Logan mutters to Veronica, gesturing with his head and gently tugging the cuff. “He’s doing the ‘ungrateful daughters’ speech from King Lear…well, as best he can…to buy us time. He wants exposure for his classical drama skills, ‘cause his slipped disc’s making action films tough.”

“His delivery’s certainly…colorful,” Veronica says, and leads Logan around the bend.

The office has an unassuming door which reads ‘Manager Only’; it sits right by the emergency exit. Veronica’s glad for that, in case a quick getaway if necessary. But there’s a camera at the end of the hall, and that spells trouble. 

She shoves Logan up against the wall and whispers, “We’re being filmed. Are you SURE we’re unrecognizable?”

“Well, we’re wearing fiendish disguises,” he says. “Which got us past Lilly, although everyone ELSE saw through them. Tell you what. I’ll press you up against that door, and you check to see if it’s locked. If not, we’ll pretend to accidentally open it while making out, and fall through. Then we can fool around on the desk while you rifle it.”

Veronica kisses him, murmuring, “Thank God for unbudgeable lipstick.” He laughs against her mouth and spins her, nudging her flat against the wood. His palms curve into her underpants, copping a feel. He sinks his teeth gently into the spot below her ear, and she can barely focus on the doorknob, or turnings thereof.

It’s unlocked. She tilts backwards as it swings open, but he doesn’t let her fall.

The office is dark, with a strong smell of cheap cologne. She has a vague impression of dark leather and stainless steel-- the big desk he shoves her against feels solid. He settles into the office chair and grinds up into her, clearly enjoying the performance. She gets sucked under the surface of his kiss, and loses the plan’s thread.

His hands slide farther beneath the dress, shaping her waist. Then she’s lifted and turned, pressed forward, and she braces her elbows on the ink blotter. He rubs against her from behind. 

“Search the drawers,” he murmurs in her ear, curving around her back. He kisses her nape. “The camera in here is behind me, I’m blocking you from view.”

He stands up, adjusting her dress so she’s not showing skin, and continues the exceptionally real-feeling simulation. She frantically thinks of sand, and fumbles through drawers. There’s nothing in the top except pens and a box of staples; but down below, she finds a flat electronic device. 

“This it?” she murmurs, elbowing him, and he leans closer to confirm. Kisses her cheek. “Yup,” he says. “Not even hidden. Shove it under my shirt, on the side, covered by the jacket. Anchor it in the waistband of my pants. That should keep it safe until we get to the car.”

She grips the journal in her cuffed hand, spins and kisses him again. Untucks his shirt and shoves it up, running her palm unprofessionally over his abs. She nips his collarbone as she slides the diary in place, then curves her hand around his cock and kisses him hard. This is feeling less and less like a theft every second.

“THREE hours,” he says, tearing free, breathing like he’s biking the Tour de France. “I don’t CARE how tired I am. An hour’s not going to cut it, after this interlude and that dress.”

“We should go,” she murmurs, huskily. “Move aside and let me notice the camera. I’ll point and gasp, and we can rush out, giggling.”

He obligingly sinks into the chair, kisses her abdomen. She simulates shock, and doubts three hours will take the edge off.

They stagger into the hallway, clinging and not-really-fake kissing; try to shove through the emergency door, only to find it locked. Veronica looks consternation at Logan then winces, as the sound of shrieking issues from the club proper. “It’s an EMERGENCY EXIT,” she says, kicking the wall. “Someone needs to report this asshole to the FIRE DEPARTMENT!”

“Come on, sugarplum.” Logan tugs her around to the ‘Start Me up’ nook, and rips off his disguise. He tucks it behind a statue of a sexy zombie, and helps Veronica remove her wimple. “Let’s just saunter down the stairs like we own the place, and…try to avoid projectiles.”

Veronica makes a face at him, but removes the habit and follows. At which point, she realizes Logan wasn’t kidding. Apparently Connor’s stirring speech has ignited a brawl.

There’s a free-for-all in progress, ring-led by the WB stars, and drinks are flying. Penelope’s still up on the table, beating interlopers with a Fendi handbag. Connor’s onto the ‘plucking out eyes’ portion of his speech, practically frothing at the mouth. Rooks has his teeth bared and his chair pressed against a wall; he looks like a lone weasel surrounded by cobras.

“This is practically a hockey riot!” Veronica shouts, ducking a glass bowl of peanuts. Logan pulls her against his chest, and shoves forward through the crowd. He dodges Sack’s surly date, who’s chasing an angel-clad waiter with a cocktail mixer, and makes it to the head of the stairs.

Where Lilly is waiting, hand on hip, sipping a martini and wearing an expectant smirk.

“Leaving so soon, lover?” she croons, resting an elbow on the rail. “When the party’s JUST getting started?”

“You WOULD enjoy this,” Logan says, with an eye roll. “Step aside, Kali. We need to make tracks before the cops show up.”

“Is that stolen goods you’re smuggling?” She asks, gesturing with her head at the bulge in Logan’s jacket. “Is this why you purloined my security consultant, and cut me out of your madcap adventures? Maybe we SHOULD wait for the cops. Just to make sure all possessions end up in the right hands.”

“Why won’t you stop torturing me, Lils?” Logan asks, almost plaintively. “We’ve been friends since we were kids. Why do you try to hurt me, instead of taking the time to care?”

“Why are you always getting bored and casting me off?” she demands. “You’re the only person EVER who’s found me boring. It shouldn’t be POSSIBLE.”

“Return the key, Lilly,” Veronica says. “Declare a truce, and be a friend, and go date one of the many people who think you’re fascinating.”

“Oh you want my help NOW?” Lilly asks. “Sure, no problem. As soon as you give me THAT.”

She throws her martini at Logan’s crotch, then dives in under the jacket, going for the bulge in his coat. It’s a three-way, two-persons-handcuffed free-for-all, as Logan and V try to keep the diary, and Lilly seeks the upper hand. 

Veronica gets twisted backwards when Lilly shoves her, and takes a minute to right herself. When she stands, Lilly’s retreating with a triumphant grin, the journal clutched to her chest.

“You’re like an ungrateful CHILD!” Connor booms into the sudden silence. After which Penelope drawls, “Hey, sorry to interrupt, because that was a GREAT speech. But listen…I know you’re into guys. Any chance you swing both ways?”

Lilly examines her ill-gotten gains, and her smirk turns feral. “Oooh, Logan!” she says. “Your feelings journal? How did THIS get out of your sight? Has Chuck been playing naughty spying-and-thieving games again?”

Logan sighs, resigned. “What do you want, Lilly? Regardless, you can have it, as long as it’s not me.”

“I need a staged breakup,” she says, drumming her nails on the plastic case. “In front of all our friends. I should be the one to dump YOU, publicly and with full humiliation points, because you’re just not MAN enough to hold my interest. AND I want rent paid on the hotel suite of my choice for the rest of the school year. Because I’m NOT living in her dorm room anymore.”

“Done,” he says, no hesitation. “I’ll even throw in the number of the best personal stylist I have ever, personally, met.”

Lilly cocks her head, considering. “The Ivy, on Wednesday, at lunch. Come prepared to suffer.”

“I’m not the child of actors for nothing,” he says. “You’ll get your furniture-smashing scene.”

She extends the journal, and Veronica takes it. Lilly smiles. “I’ll be trashing my suite, at some point in the future,” she informs him. “Brace yourself for bills. And Logan? No matter what I say, Wednesday…it’s been fun.”

“In part,” he says, smiling. “There’s only one Lilly Kane.”

He and Veronica brush past her, and descend the stairs unopposed.

XXXXX

They wait, hand-in-hand, by the valet station. Logan squints up at the stars, absently whistling ‘Mea Culpa’. Veronica swipes his groin with a tissue, eliciting a startled jerk, followed by a groan.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back. “You’re dripping, and you had…an olive.”

He shakes his head. “Next time, I’m kidnapping you to Timbuktu. Maybe there’s a yurt there, somewhere, in which we can debauch each other WITHOUT catastrophic interruptions.”

The car glides up and Logan tips the attendant; then hoists Veronica in from his side, so she won’t flash the lot. He climbs up after. “We should have driven a harder bargain, and gotten the key.”

“She probably threw it in the ocean,” Veronica says. “After we sleep twelve hours, we’ll fix this with bolt cutters.”

She leans back, stretching; wiggles her foot experimentally against the carpet, then bends to examine her boot. “Darn it,” she says. “My heel is loose. I LIKED these shoes! Maybe I can get it repaired?”

He doesn’t answer. She looks up to find him staring at her hip. Her skirt’s ridden up so her stocking’s on display, and he shows no interest in watching the road.

“We’re going to crash,” she murmurs, locking eyes. He jerks his gaze forward and hits the brake. Curls his palm around her thigh, dragging her wrist along, then delves inside her underwear.

“All evening,” he tells her conversationally, taking the opportunity of a red light to watch his hand work, “You’ve walked around in that skin-tight dress like a beautifully-wrapped package. But every time I get my hand on your ass, and my fingers on the tab of your zipper, some further piece of insanity thwarts me. I am fucking exhausted and my nerves are shot, yet I’m really only focused on how GREAT you feel.”

He pushes two fingers inside her, circling her clit with his thumb, and she gasps encouragement; slumps back in the seat, and spreads her legs. His breath speeds up, he adds a third finger, and the long moan she can’t swallow makes him curse. 

“You are the hottest thing I have ever SEEN,” he says, grimly, jerking the wheel right. They swerve into a parking garage. He rolls the window down to take a ticket, pumping into her slow and deep; murmurs, “That’s right,” as she starts to contract.

The striped bar rises and he drives past, stroking her clit with more pressure as her juices swamp his hand. “Beautiful,” he says, pulling into a corner. He snaps his seatbelt off, watching her thrash against the pleasure. Shoves his seat back, flings the armrest upright, and tugs her by the cuff onto his lap.

Veronica curls her free hand around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and kisses him, eager for more. He withdraws his damp fingers and braces her hip…rips off her panties and tosses them on the floor. He unzips the dress slowly, watching with hungry eyes; then says, “Oh, God,” and shuts them, like the sight is too much to bear.

She digs in his pocket for a condom, secures it in her hand while she works his fly open. They wrestle together, shifting and shoving, until they drag his jeans to his knees. With a rip of teeth she gets the packet open and rolls it on, while he clenches his jaw and maintains. They both groan as he sinks home, and she rocks him deep.

He flicks open the clasp of her bra, and his lids lift halfway to watch her breasts move. He shoves up into her in counterpoint, two fingers playing around her clit; she grits her teeth as another orgasm blooms, cresting in wave after wave. 

Veronica thought she knew what desire was, before this weekend began. She had a long-term boyfriend who was amoral but hot, and a three-speed vibrator…one or the other always did the trick.

But this—the scent of Logan, his warmth and strength. His sly knowledge and dirty words, clever hands and lack of shame—makes a thirst bloom in her belly that feels unquenchable. She wants to devour him. Wants to make him come, over and over, until he’s completely spent. His cock inside her, his fingers toying, his hot breath on her ear feed every illicit need she’s ever had. She could fuck him twice a day for years, and never get enough.

He moans, a rough almost-whine, and his mouth falls open as he comes, with a series of uncontrolled thrusts. He buries his face in the valley between her breasts, panting. Murmurs, “God, I adore you,” while she strokes his hair.

Logan flops back against the seat, spent, and Veronica follows, nestling her face against his pec, letting her eyes drift closed. He lifts her off his cock, does something she can’t see with the condom, and then slumps motionless, done. In less than a minute, his breaths segue into snores.

She smiles, cuddling closer. The starburst feeling in her chest is a flame. She kisses his jaw, bristly now despite the recent shave, tucks her head under his chin, and drifts off to sleep as well.

Veronica floats through dreams; costumes and mayhem, bounty hunters and fire, kisses and touches and pancakes and phones. She feels no angst as the craziness unfolds. She’s sublimely at peace.

At least she is until a knock on the window startles her awake. And she sits up, eyes sleep-blurred, to find her grandmother peering at her through the glass.


	11. What a Big Heart I Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, finally. The last chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it! And THANK YOU to all of you who've been so supportive, encouraging and enthusiastic throughout the writing process. VM fandom is the BEST fandom, and you are a lovely bunch of people.

Veronica gazes into her grandmother’s scandalized eyes, and flashes back to the day of First Communion. The day Grandma caught her behind Church, in frilly white dress with bleeding knuckles, knocking Bobby Bianchi sideways.

That morning marked V’s first ‘Men Are Wolves’ lecture. Marina Mars had zero issues with punching; Bobby insisted Veronica was a vampire, post-sacrament, and her view was, heretics deserve punishment. She was pissed, though, about damaged family-heirloom lace.

Delicious, sinful Logan, still blissfully unconscious beneath V, is the latest in a long line of boys who want her to bite them. He’s confident, caustic, eager to kiss, and stirs up her overactive id.

He is not, however, her legally wedded spouse. Thank God they rescued those cookbooks, or Veronica would be literally AND metaphorically screwed.

“Shit, this is BAD,” she murmurs. “Logan, wake up! Get dressed! God, how do I ZIP this thing?”

“Hunghhhh,” Logan groans, struggling for coherence after an hour’s sleep. “Knee in my stomach, doll face. Just hold still, and I’ll…JESUS CHRIST!!”

“Yeah, meet Grandma.” She presses harder against him as the frantic knocking resumes. “She’ll invoke the Lord in NON-blasphemous ways, as soon as you open that door. Now PLEASE, help me cover up, before my father locates a shotgun.”

They writhe together dressing, in apparent simulacrum of sex, while the knocking becomes a pounding. Then decent, they stumble out, a tangle of limbs and chains.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” Dad thunders; he’s behind and to the left of Grandma, with Uncle Al. Also, Aunt Shirley. Plus some girl Veronica doesn’t know, who looks like Frederick’s of Hollywood’s best customer. Smart money says she’s the twerker.

V reaches up to smooth her wig as her loose heel buckles, inadvertently revealing the handcuffs. Turns the gesture into a half-hearted wave. “Fancy meeting you guys here?”

Dad’s gaze rivets on her wrist-- his grip on a Slim Jim goes white-knuckled. Logan’s sleepy eyes turn wary, but he bravely tries a smile. “Ooookay, there, sir, now let’s not act hastily. I’m sure you’ve heard the line, but this isn’t what it looks like.”

He bobs his eyebrows, attempting charm. Dad lunges.

XXXXX

Eight hours later, Veronica flops face-forward into the Bel Air’s cushy comforter, and tries to slow her breathing. Even the triple-helping of endorphins, though, can’t erase premonitions of doom.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the morning mood enhancement,” she tells Logan, who’s sprawled beside her, feet near her chin. “But I’m even LESS motivated now to EVER join them for breakfast.”

He reverses position with a mighty heave—he’s panting, too—and kisses her shoulder. “It was my PLEASURE.” He pats her butt and then just leaves his hand there, possessive. “Besides, look on the bright side…it’s not like things could get WORSE than they did last night.”

She grimaces sympathetically; touches the shiner he’s now boasting, feather-light. He winces. “I can’t BELIEVE Dad tracked my phone,” she says. “No, scratch that, I CAN believe it, I’m just so pissed he had the NERVE! THANK YOU for not pressing charges. Let alone renting them all ROOMS!”

“He was just upset about the naked-chained-together thing,” Logan says, reasonably. “Perfectly understandable. But the demands to head straight for Palm Springs were out of line. After all we’ve been through, you NEEDED a good night’s sleep.”

“Plus, absconding with me’s YOUR job.” She winks, exaggerated; he grins and kisses her, taking his time.

“At least he got rid of the handcuffs.” Logan shrugs off the dilemma, and she watches his back muscles ripple. “Come on, magnolia blossom, we should clean up and face the music. I promise to soap you in all the right places, then play nice with your over-caffeinated dad.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “Stick around and cope with family, I mean--not when we JUST started dating. You realize the grilling will be….intense.”

“Once a cop, always a cop?” His mouth curves, rueful. “Hey, I get it. If I had a daughter who was both beautiful and a complete loose cannon, I’d be overprotective, too.”

She extends a hand. He hops up and takes it, hauls her over his shoulder. Carts her to the bathroom with an extremely hot lack of effort, then makes good on his promise in myriad excellent, hygienic ways.

The room phone rings twice while they dress, but both ignore it—it’s Sunday, the last day, and this might be their final moment alone. He fastens her necklace, then stands, hands on her shoulders, studying their nesting-doll reflections. His mouth quirks at her morose expression; he says, “Showtime!” and does jazz hands, which succeeds in making her laugh.

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” she intones, and he rolls his eyes.

Logan skips to the door, swings it open with a sweeping, mocking gesture…then cringes, hands pasted to his ears, as an ear-splitting siren fills the room. “The FUCK?” he yells. Pulls a stray hand towel over his head, like that will muffle sound. Veronica grits her teeth, and goes searching for the squealer.

“UGH!” she drops the device on the floor, crushes it into silence. “You booby-trapped our door, so we wouldn’t sneak out?”

“Veronica, I don’t even know what that thing…” Logan trails off when he realizes she’s speaking to her father. Who’s leaning against the wall, arms folded--a suspicious pose, to put it mildly, in a hotel hall at ten AM.

“Just a precaution.” Keith moves forward to kiss Veronica’s cheek, shoots Logan a dark glance. “Since Mr. Rich-and-famous wouldn’t rent my daughter a room of her own. You look nice, sweetheart. Sleep well?”

Veronica sighs. Her father’s wearing his special Thanksgiving Guayabera, the one with embroidered turkeys marching down the placket. She feels momentarily guilty that he hared across the desert to save her, not taking time to change.

Then she remembers Norris pressing a gun to Logan’s temple, and her anger comes rushing back.

“Don’t you sweetheart me,” she snaps, tucking her arm defiantly through Logan’s. “Not after the crap you pulled. I called you TWICE, Dad! I TOLD you I was okay! And you KNOW how Norris gets when he ups the juicing to prep for Judo tournaments. He beat Logan with a STICK!”

“Veronica, we’ll discuss this later, once you’re safe at home. Right now you’ve been exposed to…undesirable elements, and you’re not thinking straight. Come on, I hear they have a killer restaurant downstairs. We’ll get some ice cream on your waffle! You know you love that.”

“Dad, I’m not FOUR!” she glances at Logan for support. “And Logan is NOT an undesirable element. Quite the contrary; he’s kind, he’s funny, and he’s saved me a bunch of times this weekend, from threats you can’t IMAGINE. So quit acting like he’s the devil in disguise.”

Logan gamely produces a smile, though the corners of his mouth twitch down. Keith says, “He hasn’t gone to much trouble disguising himself, as far as I can tell.”

“Not FUN-NY!” she sing-songs, accusing.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” Keith says. “Me plus joke equals hilarious, honey, remember?”

“Yeah, you’re a laugh riot,” Logan mutters, which earns him another dark look.

“I wonder if patricide’s a felony in California,” V muses, faux-thoughtful.

The walk to the restaurant is strained.

XXXXX

Breakfast is served on the Al Fresco Terrace, a vaguely European space with round tables and Scandinavian chairs. Brown beams support an all-weather portico, from which crosshatch-patterned lanterns hang. Beyond lies a garden, rimmed by a pink adobe wall; its focus is a blue-tiled fountain, overhung by bougainvillea. Sprays of the same fuchsia petals adorn each table.

Veronica’s family is parked at one, and they’re enjoying Logan’s Amex--the round surface is piled high with baked goods, fruit and bacon. V sinks into the central empty chair, and gazes sullenly over the grass.

Al, more hirsute than ever in a red Hawaiian shirt and gold chains, toasts them with a Mimosa as they settle.“Look babe, the lovebirds awake! Little too much clubbing before the nookie, am I right? I own five party-friendly establishments; I can always tell.”

“They aren’t tackily industrial and full of minor celebrities, I hope.” Logan sits beside Veronica and puts a hand on her knee. “Because I have my doubts about that business model.”

“Nah.” Al hand-waves the very thought. “My places are CLASSY. Bright colors, rock-and-roll, pretty girls that dance, like my lovely wife Vivian, here. And all of ‘em have ENORMOUS hoo…I mean curves. Sorry, Ma. It’s my trademark.”

“Al’s an ENTREPRENEUR!” The voluptuous brunette from last night clinks her drink against his. “He has plans for a NATIONAL CHAIN.”

Aunt Shirley groans into her extra-large coffee, threads both hands through her wispy, greying hair. Mutters something uncomplimentary about hot wings.

Grandma snaps “POSIZIONE!” which makes Shirley sit up resentfully straighter. Takes a sip of her extra-large cappuccino, and fixes Logan with a hawk-like dark stare. Her dyed-black, tightly-permed curls quiver with indignation. “So you’re awake, eh?” she asks, rhetorically. “After a long night of debauching my granddaughter? What do you have to say for yourself, ragazzo? You were dressed in leather! You were wrapped in CHAINS!”

“Hey, the leather was a disguise.” Logan favors Grandma with his best Hollywood Sincere smile. “And the handcuffs were put on by a girl who was jealous of Veronica.” He picks up his water, takes a sip, then ruins the penitent act with a smirk. “Also, in my defense? I let her sleep until nine, and debauched her this morning.”

Grandma snorts. Smacks Dad’s hand as he reaches for a pastry, and pulls the plate protectively closer. “You’re a bad one, aren’t you?” she accuses, shaking a finger at Logan. “A shark with a handsome face. First you lead poor Paris astray, and now Veronica Anne. All these women you kiss, and then you grin with too many teeth. Oh, I KNOW!”

Logan seems perversely encouraged by this response—he winks at her. “Paris only kissed me to screw with Nicole,” he confides. “SHE’S the one who had a crush.”

Grandma narrows her eyes, bites aggressively into a Danish. Doesn’t protest as Logan reaches for a croissant. Veronica pats him on the thigh, and he pretends serenity while buttering.

“I liked you better when you were play-acting innocent lamb.” Dad settles back in his chair, arms crossed. “Veronica may have declined to press charges, but that’s no reason to get smug.”

“Dad,” Veronica warns. “Logan brought me along on his luxury vacation because I ASKED. You’re lucky he doesn’t press charges against YOU!”

“Against ME?” Dad bellows, making Aunt Shirley wince. “I’m not the one guilty of alienation of affection! Or entrapment, or kidnapping! Let alone arson, assault of Norris Clayton, and resisting arrest!”

“Norris assaulted HIM!” Veronica insists. “When he broke down our door, Logan was ASLEEP!”

“Not to mention unlawful confinement,” Dad continues, ignoring her. “And contributing to the delinquency of a minor by escorting her to a SEX CLUB!”

“Dad, I’m not a MINOR!” Veronica tosses down her napkin in exasperation. “I haven’t been for three and a half YEARS!”

“I won’t be twenty-one until the end of March,” Logan puts in, sniffing a pot of jam. “Technically, she contributed to the delinquency of ME.”

“UNDERAGE DRINKING!” Dad yells, not chastened. “Consorting with circus performers! Solicitation!”

“OK, you’re really reaching now.” Veronica tastes a spoonful of jam and mouths ‘blackberry’. “Nobody was solicited. And I have it on good authority that’s legal in Vegas, anyway.”

“Mr. Mars,” Logan says, evenly, “Obviously, this weekend went wildly astray. But even the Inyo County Sheriff agrees; we didn’t break any laws. And since I hope to spend MORE weekends with Veronica in the future, I’d appreciate you dialing down your rage problem a smidge.”

“What he said,” Veronica chimes in, taking the croissant from Logan and enjoying a bite. “Come on, Dad, I LIKE this guy. Give him a break. I mean, where do the spurious accusations end? You plan to charge him with tax evasion next?”

“Well, it took down Al Capone,” Dad says, glowering. He subsides, though, because the waiter’s turned up.

“I’d like strawberry juice and a Cappuccino.” Veronica consults the menu, favoring the harried young guy with a smile. “And brioche French toast with clotted cream, plus huckleberry compote. Also, bring more bacon--it disappears fast.”

“What is this ‘huckleberry’?” Grandma edges over to peer at the menu.

“Like a cross between strawberries and prune plums,” Veronica points. “Those ones you use to make tarts?”

“I want this too,” Grandma decides. “All the things Veronica Anne ordered, I want those.”

The waiter makes a note and raises his brows at Dad, who says, “I just need normal coffee, normal eggs and normal bacon. Can you manage that for me here?”

“We have espresso or French press,” the guy offers, furrowing his brow. “Or latte. And there’s the Bel Air breakfast, which is eggs, bacon, potatoes and toast.”

“Bring him that,” Logan says, taking pity. “Hold the potatoes and toast, tell the kitchen he’s no-carb. Then French press, cream on the side. I’ll have the gruyere omelet; and please, keep my espressos coming.”

“More mimosas, too!” the brunette calls, elbowing Al with a grin. “We’re on our honeymoon! In fact, bring a pitcher!”

“Two pitchers, for the table,” Al corrects, magnanimous. “Shirley needs a fu…darn drink. She looks like Mrs. Pastrorelli used to in the mornings, that last year before Mr. Pastorelli kicked the bucket.”

Shirley groans. Takes a long swallow of coffee and buries her face in her hand.

“Don’t think you’ve buttered me up,” Dad warns Logan, pointing with his fork before stealing a slice of bacon. “I may not speak hipster, but I’m FULLY conversant in ‘criminal’.”

“And again, not GUILTY,” Logan says, a definite edge to his mild words. “My misbehaving days are behind me.”

“Mmmm.” Dad seems unconvinced. “Would these be the bum-fight-hosting days you’re referring to? The assaulting-a-police-officer days? Or the drunken, promiscuous reality TV days? Because all three were captured on video.”

“Wow, how did you dig up so many skeletons, while chasing us cross-country and arranging our abduction?” Logan asks. “Mr. Mars, I’m impressed. You’re a multi-tasker.”

“I have friends on the force,” Dad says. “And there’s free wi-fi at this hotel.”

“What do you mean promiscuity?” Grandma demands, avid. “He kissed only Paris, and this blonde roommate, Lilly Kane.” She gasps. “Lauren CONRAD? Are you dating HER, in the new season?”

“Grandma, no,” Veronica chides. “Lauren Conrad has some boyfriend named Stephen, she’s never fooled around with Logan.” She narrows her eyes. “Has she?”

“Not even close,” Logan confirms. “But point of fact, Colletti dumped Conrad for Cavalleri YEARS ago. Lauren’s going to FASHION school, now.”

“Oh, that Stephen is SCUM!” Grandma smacks the table. “Treating the love of a good woman like DIRT! Thank the Virgin for this handsome boy Brody Jenner. He will soothe Lauren’s pain.”

“Actually, Lauren’s got a NEW guy,” Logan confides, leaning closer. “But he’s worried the show will hinder his career, so he won’t let himself be filmed. Dude’s name is KYLE.”

“Kyle?” Grandma demands. “I don’t know this Kyle. How bad is he?”

“A little bad,” Logan says. “But mostly good. Like me.”

“Oh, you’re smooth.” Al’s new wife winks at Logan as the waiter reappears, setting down two pitchers of mimosas. He proceeds to hand out plates. “No wonder Veronica skipped the family get-together. Pass the sausage on over here, can you, hon? I’m willing to bet you’ve had PLENTY.”

Vivian fills Shirley’s empty water glass with mimosa. Shirley drains it, and an expression of sheer relief spreads across her face.

“See, Viv?” Al holds out his own glass for a refill. “You never met Mrs. Pastorelli, babe, but she was useless before her morning bottle.”

“Don’t encourage Shirley, Al.” Dad digs into his eggs, scowling. “Wasn’t the twerking Thursday ENOUGH?”

Al shakes his head, exasperated, and pours Shirley more booze. “Keith’s the black sheep,” he confides to Logan. “Constantly worried about acting upstanding. He gets lots of civic respect, but he’s a drag.”

“Always with the model trains,” Shirley says, her first complete sentence of the day. She nods thanks at Al, takes a healthy slug. “Just like Pop.”

“Being respectable is not a CRIME,” Dad says, bitter. “I’m PROUD of it, and so is Veronica. Which is why throwing all her dreams over for a…liaison…with some hooligan is suspect at BEST. Veronica KNOWS better!”

“Apparently not,” Viv snorts. “But good for you, girl! Get it and enjoy it, that’s what I always say.”

Grandma waves a silencing hand. “Hooligan!” she pronounces, contemptuous. “Bah! I’ll tell you who is hooligan. Whoever locks my beautiful granddaughter in handcuffs. This is the burning question, Veronica. I want a NAME!”

“Grandma,” Veronica chides, through a mouthful of bacon. “We’ve talked about this. Vendettas can serve as justice, but ONLY if you keep them legal. Remember what the judge said, last time you got caught?”

“Lilly Kane,” Logan puts in, precisely slicing his omelet. Glances sideways at Veronica with a lurking grin. “She locked us up while pretending to apologize, then ran off with the key.”

“This girl betrays your FRIENDSHIP, Veronica?” Grandma demands. “She breaks a VOW?”

“Well, in her defense, I did kind of steal her boyfriend.” Veronica takes a big bite of syrup-drenched French toast, closes her eyes in bliss. “Oh my GOD, this meal is worth every penny.”

“We should fill Lilly Kane’s bed with ants,” Grandma decides, digging into her own French toast with a vengeance. “Bugs are legal, yes?”

“We should fill VINNIE’S bed with ants,” Veronica counters, eyes gleaming. “Lilly’s a whole separate discussion, because of the way she treated Logan; but if ANYONE deserves ants, it’s him. He KIDNAPPED us!”

“This Vinnie we bailed out of jail?” Grandma demands of Dad. “We bail out a man who kidnaps my GRANDDAUGHTER?”

“He was working for me at the time,” Dad says. “Poor guy just got his wires crossed.”

“You PAY a man to ABDUCT my granddaughter?” Grandma yells, smacking him with her spoon. “All this time being respectable has rotted your BRAIN!”

She goes after him in Italian, and he recoils. “Echolls over there kidnapped her first!”

“Logan RESCUED me,” Veronica counters. “AND Grandma’s cookbooks. They were almost eaten by a big-horned sheep, and then they nearly burned in a forest fire. They WOULD have, if he hadn’t distracted that animal by jumping off a CLIFF!”

“Spare me the praise for Logan Echolls’ heroism.” Dad finishes the last bite of food and tosses his napkin on the table. “I’m gonna take a walk around the parking lot and cool down. No vendettas while I’m gone, ma, I’m not kidding; and quit encouraging Veronica to be bloodthirsty.”

“Ants,” Grandma reiterates darkly, as Dad strides off. “And maybe wasps. Mark my words!”

“I should settle our bill and have the car brought around, while your Dad’s otherwise occupied.” Logan kisses Veronica’s temple and rises. “Quick question, since I’ll be relatively undefended at the front desk…he doesn’t carry a gun, right?”

“He keeps one in his glove box,” Veronica says, apologetically. “But I promise…he almost never shoots people.”

“Comforting,” Logan mutters, and strides away.

Veronica finishes breakfast while Al and Viv canoodle, Shirley gets liquored-up, and Grandma ponders the fine line between vendetta and assault. After ten minutes pass without the men in her life returning, V frowns and goes in search.

There’s no sign of Dad, either in the parking lot or the restaurant garden, but she spots Logan easily enough—he’s trapped in the hotel lobby by a circle of hungry blondes. He’s smiling with edge, like the slice of sin he is; but the look in his eyes is hunted, so she heads over to save him.

She’s stopped by a hand on her arm, halfway across the carpet, and glances back to find Dad behind her. “Lost something?” he asks, with significant intonation.

Veronica considers flip answers; my inhibitions? My roommate? The fear I’d be alone all my life? But as she watches Logan flinch away from the predator stroking his chest, the right response comes clear, calm and certain. “No, actually. I think I FOUND something.”

Dad makes a frustrated noise. “Sweetheart, I’m not speaking metaphorically.”

Veronica feels her face heat. “Dad, I hate to break it to you, but I cashed in my v card YEARS ago. You can harass Troy, if the knowledge makes you murderous. Thursday’s visitor’s day.”

He turns equally red. “No, honey, that’s not what I meant. Even I have no argument with Troy’s level of punishment. And I wasn’t talking about Logan, either, although those girls sure are doing their best to seduce him. It’s just, I found…this.” He drops something small into her palm.

She looks down at the tiny gold skull, as one of the blondes erupts into shrieking giggles. This elicits a burst of distant, biting Logan sarcasm, which makes Veronica smile. “Great, thanks. I wondered where it went. But when did…”

‘You find this?’ goes unspoken, as Veronica realizes—it came off last night, in Logan’s SUV, along with a pair of torn red panties. “Dad. Did you return Logan’s rental car in the middle of the night, so he couldn’t run off with me again?”

“Veronica,” Dad says, instead of no, “I did it for your own good. First that kid drags you all over creation in what I STILL suspect was an underhanded move; then we find you half-naked in a PARKING GARAGE, chained to his WRIST! You’re still my little girl, and my focus is protecting you. And I can’t, if Mr. Life of the Party over there keeps whisking you away.”

“Dad, I’m a Junior in college!” she protests, because she’s finally had enough. “You can’t pretend forever that I don’t have a love life!”

“I can and I will,” Dad corrects. “When you went into that room with him last night, my position is, you watched Disney and held hands. Listen, kid, it’s not that I don’t want you to be happy. It’s just, that character over there is not some adorable kitten—look at him hitting on those women, right in front of you. I’ll keep you safe from harm, by guile or force if necessary, and I won’t feel the least bit guilty, either.”

“Second-guessing isn’t the Mars way,” she agrees. “Which is why, if you take this stance, I’ll be fine and dandy protecting him from YOU. I think I’ll start with rescuing him from that mob in hair extensions-- which you set upon him in ambush, unless I miss my guess.”

V dials her expression up to Maximum Resting Bitch Face and stalks forward; the girls, sensing danger, scatter. Logan smiles knowingly as she approaches, arms crossed. Once she’s sure the coast is clear, she can’t help but smile back.

“Thank God.” He kisses her between the eyebrows. “I was worried only a nuclear blast would dislodge them. And this shirt’s Armani—I don’t want it singed.”

“Dad returned your car to Hertz at three AM,” she confesses, smoothing pale orange cotton over his chest with both palms. “I REALLY hope you vaporized that condom, somehow.”

Logan grimaces. “No comment,” he says. “But also, I’m not surprised. Funny thing; I just tried to settle our bill, only to learn SOMEONE put a fraud freeze on my credit cards. I was trying to reach my money manager, free up some cash, when the vultures descended.”

“Make your call.” She presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I’ll urge him to see reason. At this point, though, my optimism’s fading.”

With a burst of speed, she catches her Dad before he saunters back into the restaurant. Glares. “Seriously? You sabotaged his CREDIT CARDS?”

“I did no such thing,” Dad maintains. “That would be illegal. I MAY have reported suspicious activity on three of them--your adventure across the desert certainly qualifies. All he has to do is call and verify charges during normal business hours. This mess will clear right up.”

“How is he supposed to rent another car, without cash?” she demands.

Dad shrugs, making the poker face he thinks she can’t read. Says, oh-so-innocently, “It’s a dilemma. He can stay here in his suite, of course, until start of business Monday. But if he wants a ride as far as Palm Springs, I guess he’ll have to come with us.”

XXXXX

“Of COURSE I agree,” Logan tells her ten minutes later, after the hotel and his business manager work out a balance transfer. “I mean if I don’t, I have to say goodbye to you on the spot, and nobody except your dad wants that.”

“True.” She spot checks Aunt Shirley, who’s sprawled, supine, on a bench by the door, humming Rocket Man and sipping from a flask. “But it goes against the grain to let him get away with this. I mean, messing with your money is Vinnie/Norris levels of wrong.”

“He just wants to make sure I don’t abscond with his daughter,” Logan says, reasonably. “Which, you have to admit, is legit. Because if he gave me an opening, I WOULD.”

“Oooh, and take me where?” She leans against the wall in the parking circle, watching Dad pull the Winnebago around. “Timbuktu?”

“Tempting.” He slouches beside her. “Although I wouldn’t put it past him to chase us up a mountain. But no, I was thinking Aviero, in Portugal. Beaches AND canals, all kinds of good food. Or Porto, since you seem fond of WINE.”

“You’re just saying that because you plied me with beverages and foodstuffs, and I jumped you under a ceiling mirror,” she accuses.

“Mmmmm.” He balances his negligent lean on one shoulder, smiles reminiscently. “I plan to repeat the experiment across many exotic locales. Just, you know, in the interests of double blind verification.”

“And they say science isn’t sexy.” She bats her lashes at him; his smile gets bigger. Then the Winnebago shudders to a halt nearby, and banter time is over.

Veronica’s never seen this vehicle, or heard of its existence; but it’s more decrepit tour bus than family camper. The thing is massive, painted flat Seventies brown, decorated with tan swirls; an airbrushed urban cowboy on the cab door rides a rearing horse and tips his hat.

“Oh good.” Logan slinks upright and dusts his hands together. “I was worried, when your dad said Winnebago, we might not be traveling with class.”

Veronica snorts, just as Al and Viv emerge from the hotel with Grandma in tow. She moves at tortoise speed, clutching the Wolfgang Puck cookbook she insisted on buying in both hands. Evidently the huckleberry compote was a hit.

“All aboard,” Dad calls, swinging the cab door open. Logan moves forward to hoist Grandma inside when Al complains about his back.

“Look at you, all chivalrous,” Veronica murmurs, as he hands her up too.

He kisses her knuckles and winks. “Good thing you know better.”

The inside of the atrocity is not an improvement; bench seats are covered in brown-and-white cowhide, and every fixture is gilded. Nasal pop country blasts from speakers up front.

“I’m sensing a theme.” Veronica runs a palm along the hairy upholstery, gingerly takes a seat.

“Yeah my ex was a country singer.” Viv sprawls across the opposite bench, pats the spot beside her and beckons Al. “He found Jesus mid-tour about six months ago, in the form of some calf-roping preacher’s daughter. Left me the complete works of Garth Brooks and this van.” She shrugs. “The CD player’s busted, so you can’t turn off Billy Ray’s one hit single. But I scored a vehicle worth actual money, whereas that poor girl just got HIM.”

“The windows don’t close either,” Al contributes, helping Grandma sit next to Veronica. He settles beside Viv. “So sometimes sand blows in. But I can fit my whole body in the john in back, AND shut the door, so that’s a plus.”

“Good to know,” Logan says sardonically, taking a seat on Veronica’s right. “Luckily we’re only looking at a two hour drive on CA 60. Probably the issue won’t come up.”

“Hey, I thought my trip to Grandma’s house would be gravy,” Veronica says. “Not impressed, at the moment, with best-laid plans.”

Everybody winces as Aunt Shirley climbs into the cab; she’s resumed her musical stylings, shrill voice pitched above the weedy tenor. “Jeeee-sus found me in a parking lot….” she warbles off-key, digging through her purse for a flask. Pauses to enjoy a sip, as the scent of Crème de Menthe wafts back on dusty, open-window breeze. “The day that semi almost ran me dooooown….”

Dad guns the engine, pulls out of the circle. “Don’t get too comfortable, folks. We’ll have to stop for gas before we leave town. SOMEBODY was busy staring at his wife’s…assets, and drove right past the filling station last night. And this thing only gets two miles per gallon.”

“Visine,” Grandma muses, removing an iPad from her giant handbag, switching it on. “In Lilly Kane’s food. That’s a good one, eh? And it’s not illegal, I could buy some at Kroeger.”

The Winnebago creeps, laborious, around the corner, blocking three lanes; the cabinet above Veronica’s bench swings open, and sparkly red fabric rains down. She flinches, covering her head, then finds a sequined, heart-shaped g-string in her lap.

“Sorry about that.” Viv gathers the stuff up, stashing it in the cupboard under her bench. “Costumes for the Valentine’s Day All-You-Can-Eat Rib-stravaganza. Al thinks it’ll distract customers from bingeing if we do a routine every hour. He’s even decorating the pole like a giant rib!”

“See what I mean?” Al drapes an arm around her. “At classy establishments like mine, we spare no expense to make patrons happy.”

“Full points for creativity,” Veronica tells him, as the Winnebago groans into another right turn. Parks in front of two gas pumps, shudders to a halt. “Plus I’m sure Viv in this outfit is VERY distracting.”

“You know it,” Viv says, with a wink. “Always thinking, my guy.”

Logan peels off a matching heart-shaped pasty that’s stuck to his shoe. “I’m getting coffee while we fill up--didn’t have time to drink mine at the restaurant. You want anything?”

“Same,” Veronica says. “Lots of milk and sugar. And maybe a chocolate bar. The lack of sleep is catching up to me.”

“No regrets.” He sticks the pasty on his chest, right over his heart. Pats it. “Back in a minute.”

“You can’t wear that in there!” Veronica peels it off, hands it back to Viv. “People will stick dollar bills in your jeans.”

“Hey, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” He kisses the tip of her nose, opens the door, and leaps down, skipping the steps.

“SHIRLEY!” Grandma bellows from beside Veronica, startling her out of her watching-Logan-walk reverie. “What is that lotion? The one you tried after you cut your leg with the razor, and your father thought it was soap? YOU KNOW the one.”

“Nair.” Shirley takes a restorative slug from her flask, seeming almost cheerful. “Poor Pops, it gave him a rash.”

“Oh yes, terrible, and DOWN THERE, for a month,” Grandma agrees. “God rest his soul. You steal Lilly Kane’s shampoo bottle, bambina. We teach her what happens to girls who handcuff my granddaughter.”

“She’s moving to a hotel.” Veronica shakes her head. “I suppose we could bribe maintenance to let us in her room, but first we’d have to find out WHICH hotel….”

With a rumble and lurch the Winnebago surges into motion, skidding away from the gas tanks and gathering speed. The wheels jerk right as it merges onto the access road. “Buckle up back there!” her Dad calls. “If we want to be home by lunch, we gotta make tracks!”

“Dad, you pull this van OVER!” Veronica shouts. “Logan’s still in the convenience store buying coffee!”

“What was that, honey?” Dad cups a hand around his ear in a clear case of overkill. “I can’t hear you because of the tape. Did you know this song was a Top Forty hit for eighteen weeks?”

Veronica leans out the window in time to see Logan toss a cardboard holder full of drinks aside, and sprint for the camper. Head down, focused, he moves faster than she would have thought possible, given his usual cocky indolence; when he gets close, he leaps. Sticks a landing on the bumper and grabs the door latch, instead of getting pasted by the car behind.

“Hang on!” V yells, and he makes a face but nods. She rushes to the rear, yanks at the rusted hinges holding the hatchback closed. Two pinched fingers later, she works it open and extends her hands. When he takes them, she tugs backwards with her whole weight, praying it will be enough—and it is. He somehow fights wind resistance, slithers through to land in a heap.

“Jesus.” Logan slumps against the rear wall as she closes the hatch, directs a venomous look at the cab. “The waiting room on this thing could use an upgrade, Al. Maybe some magazines? A coffee machine?”

“Are you OKAY?” Veronica demands, running her hands over him to check for injuries. “Dad wouldn’t stop! He pretended not to hear me because of the radio!”

“Hey Viv, do me a favor,” Logan says, instead of answering. “Look in the cabinet underneath you and grab those pink furry handcuffs you stashed.”

“These?” she asks, dangling them from one finger. “That was some jump, by the way. You gonna cuff yourself to the car, so Keith can’t ditch you again?”

“Not exactly.” He latches one side to his wrist with a snap, and the other to Veronica’s. “Insurance. After all the trouble he’s gone to, no way will he leave YOU behind.”

“Careful, Echolls,” Veronica warns, twining her fingers through his. “Grandma’s devised three personal hells for Lilly thus far, just because she cuffed me for kicks. No telling what she’d do to an unrepentant bad boy like you.”

“Depends whether this one tells me the TRUTH,” Grandma says, looking up from the iPad where she’s furiously typing. “The new boy, Kyle, he’s making Lauren leave the SHOW?”

“Where’d you get that?” Logan asks, and Grandma points to her screen. He scoots closer, huffs disdain. “I’ll bet he’s looking to ride on profits from her book. It’s a tell-all, from what I’ve heard.”

“WHAT does it tell?” Grandma wants to know. She smacks the pad with an imperative finger. “This girl Katydid49 won’t say. She just wants to know, what do the handcuffs of Logan Echolls look like? Are they red velvet? Are his pants leather? What kind of question is this?”

“Handcuffs? Shirley, take the wheel!” Veronica’s Dad thunders from up front. “And give me that flask!” He makes his way back, booze sloshing in his too-tight grip, and yells, pointing at the cuffs, “What is the MEANING of this?”

“Tell Katydid I don’t wear leather because I go commando,” Logan instructs Grandma, flashing Dad his most infuriating smile. “It CHAFES. Plus Veronica and I got matching piercings yesterday, and mine still stings.”

“AND tattoos,” Veronica adds, with a minatory glare at her dad. “MINE is of a naked man. He gets FRIENDLIER when my hip flexes.”

“And mine’s a little blonde dominatrix,” Logan says, affectionate. “I’ve always preferred the dom role myself, in the past. But Veronica’s making me reconsider.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Dad bellows, face going purple.

“Traveling to Palm Springs?” Logan replies, silkily. “As I recall, you offered me a ride.”

“Hey Keith?” Shirley calls back, voice distinctly slurred. “You ever hear of the Tippi Hedren Animal Sanctuary?”

“I’ve heard of Tippi Hedren,” Dad says, glare still fixed on Logan. “As I recall, she wasn’t fond of birds.”

“Wow, these brakes don’t work so great,” Shirley says. “You guys might want to sit on the floor.”

“THAT sounds ominous,” Logan mutters, just as the Winnebago slides right, and the shriek of slammed-on brakes eats focus. Logan yanks Veronica into him, bracing his back on the door and a foot on each bench, just as the Winnebago rolls to one side and skids.

Everything and everyone else goes flying.

XXXXX

Who knows how much later, Veronica’s lids flutter open.

“You OK there, sunshine?” Logan asks, tucking her bangs behind one ear. “You conked your head pretty good when the camper did a three-sixty.”

“How long was I out?” She feels gingerly over her scalp, groans as she touches a tender spot.

“Thirty seconds.” He gently removes the cuffs from her wrist, slips them in her pocket. “Not unconscious, I don’t think, just stunned.”

She glances around; they’re in the tilted-sideways Winnebago, sitting on the wall; it’s otherwise vacant. “Is everyone OK?”

“Yeah, they all climbed out,” he says. “Didn’t want to move you until I was sure you weren’t hurt. Can you sit up?”

Veronica does. There’s no dizziness or blurred vision, so she manages to stand. “What happened?”

He shrugs. “Something about an Animal Sanctuary. And Hitchcock. Also, dinosaurs. To be honest, I’m not sure. But that’s par for the course this weekend, right?”

“Color me intrigued.” She pats his chest. “Hoist me up, big boy, I’m no good with suspense.”

He lifts her, sexily effortless; she shoves open the door and scrambles atop, blinking back the bright midday sunlight. Logan follows, hops lightly off, and helps her with the dismount. She walks around the fallen Winnebago towards agitated chatter, and sees the source of their misery.

A semi emblazoned with the logo “Tippi Hedren Exotic Animal Facility” skews across the road, cab tilted awkwardly into a ditch. The doors in back hang open, one swinging drunkenly in the biting November breeze. Veronica’s family huddles in the lee of the overturned Winnebago, Viv emitting periodic squeals of delight, Grandma cursing in Italian. And milling aimlessly around the asphalt are approximately twenty….weird armadillos?

“What on God’s green Earth ARE these things?” Dad jerks back as one careens off his foot and promptly curls into a ball. “Shouldn’t there be a driver, or wrangler or….responsible human here?”

“Armadillos carry leprosy,” Shirley announces over the the drone of Parking Lot Jesus, because the CD’s apparently indestructible. She swigs from her flask, frowns. Shakes it, turns it upside down. A thin green dribble splats into the dust. “They have virgin births, too.”

Grandma smacks the back of her head as Viv coos again, attempting to lure an animal with a Cheeto. “ONLY THE VIRGIN MARY!” she yells. “This is why we crash! God punished you for the sacrilege you were about to say!”

“Lay off, ma.” Al takes Shirley’s flask away and pockets it. “She shouldn’ta been driving. But Keith HAD to burst a blood vessel screaming at the kids, instead of being RESPONSIBLE.”

“How DID Logan get back in the camper?” Dad asks, hands on hips, like THIS is the point that stumps him.

“Ninja skills.” Logan glances up from his cell phone. “And these aren’t armadillos, they’re pangolins. Wikipedia says they like mud puddles.”

Everybody surveys the flat, cracked desert, stretching for miles in all directions, empty of both water and cars. “Yeah, good luck with that,” Viv sighs.

“The driver of this truck must have gone in search of help,” Veronica guesses. “Not realizing the animals inside could escape. If we wait here, he’ll probably come right back.”

A BMW speeds by, throwing up a cloud of dust; skates around the wrecks but doesn’t slow. Several pangolins skitter out of the way, and Logan throws a finger. “We should get these things out of the road before they’re crushed,” he tells Veronica earnestly. “Wikipedia says they’re critically endangered. These could be some of the last ones LEFT.”

“Can we pick them up?” Viv discards the Cheeto and stands, studies one that’s waddling circles around an anthill. “Didn’t Shirley say something about leprosy?”

“That’s armadillos,” Logan corrects. “The one right there is probably just hungry—they eat ants. Plus they’re all disoriented, because they’re nocturnal and it’s daytime.”

Veronica bites the bullet and catches a specimen; it wiggles in her grip, then curls into a ball. “They’re cute,” she says, reluctantly. “Ugly-cute, like tiny dinosaurs.”

“Why are they so endangered?” Dad corrals one between his boots, groaning softly as he bends to pick it up. V reminds herself to make sure he’s still seeing the chiropractor.

“They’re trafficked,” Logan says shortly, hopping into the back of the semi. In a minute he re-emerges. “For the ‘medicinal properties’ of their scales. Also they’re used as fashion accessories, and considered a gourmet delicacy.”

“It’s always about drugs or boners.” Veronica gazes sadly down at the animal in her hands.

“Because people suck,” Logan agrees. “The latch on the cage came undone. Here, hand me yours, I’ll put it inside.”

She gives the creature up. Logan takes Dad’s too, then Viv’s, and jumps back down to collect more.

“They look sort of rare and magical,” Viv says, nudging Al, who’s using this opportunity to smoke. “Like something Hagrid would keep at Hogwart’s, maybe.”

Grandma rolls her eyes and mutters about fantasy books and Satan. Logan says, “They’re the only member left on their branch of the mammal tree. And the branch is REALLY old.”

Viv shoots Grandma a vindicated look, and Al says, “I think they look like artichokes.”

Logan reaches for a little one, but it rolls away onto its back—waves claws in the air, head twisted sideways like it wants to play. He reaches again, and it scampers off into the puddle made by Shirley’s booze. “I hear you, Artichoke,” he tells it, watching the thing splash. “I like to get drunk and roll in the mud, too.”

He gathers up an armful of animals, letting the baby play, and climbs into the truck to secure them. Just as he does, a large, dirty camper pulls over, a hundred feet down the road. Veronica lock eyes with her dad, and jogs down to investigate.

It’s a farm truck, emblazoned with the logo “All Saints Ranch--Oregon”; the driver is a blue-eyed granola type, whose manic smile is blindingly white. The t-shirt peeking out from his belted London Fog reads, ‘Call Me Piz’.

“Hey there, party people!” he says, voice suspiciously cheerful and a little too fast. “All alone out here? Looks like you could use a hand!”

Veronica takes a step back, because this statement sets off her Creep Meter; but Dad seems persuaded by the guy’s wholesome appearance. “Kind of you, son!” he says. “Our Winnebago tipped over in an effort to avoid a crash. You mind giving us a ride to the nearest service station?”

“Hop in!” the guy waves merrily at Al, Viv and Grandma as they straggle up. “Most of you will have to sit back there with Daisy, though. I've only got room for two in the cab.”

“Great!” Dad slaps the side of the truck, brisk and enthusiastic. “Come on, Veronica, I’ll help you up. Looks like there aren’t any steps.”

“Dad,” she hisses as they move away from the cab. “Are you sure this is a good idea? That guy didn’t bother to give us his NAME. And he’s wearing a LITERAL trench coat!”

“Well, it gets cold in the desert at night,” Dad says, in the ‘I’m reasonable and you’re not’ voice that plagued her teens. “Come on, Veronica, he’s just a farm kid making deliveries, and we need a hand. Besides, there’s a bunch of us and one of him. How bad could things get?”

“Famous last words,” she mutters. Swings the camper door open, and find herself face to face with a tethered goat.

“Oh, no.” Veronica takes a defensive step back, as the thing bares its teeth and bleats. “No WAY. I’ve reached my limit on aggressive ungulates this weekend. I’ll wait with the pangolins for the next ride.”

The goat staggers sideways, goes down on one knee, and Dad says, “Don’t sweat this, Veronica. You probably just woke her up. Sit on the end, she won’t bother you. She’s a pet.”

V gives her Dad a look that would melt lead, but climbs aboard anyway, settling cross-legged in hay of suspect cleanliness. Grandma perches on a taped-shut packing crate, pulling Shirley after. Al boosts Viv and follows, while she coos at the goat and tries to pet it; the thing bares its teeth, jerks its head away.

Dad grins encouragingly, slams the door. A second later Veronica sees him hop into the cab through the rear windshield. He begins a smiling conversation with the over-cheerful Good Samaritan as the engine growls to life; a Beatles song filters back while they U-turn.

The truck gathers speed, moving past Tippi’s semi, and Veronica pounds on the windshield, because they need to pick up Logan. The driver glances at her, frowning--Dad pretends not to notice.

She grits her teeth and pounds harder as they creep towards sixty; through the camper’s rear window, she sees Logan leap from the truck, taking in the situation at a glance. He runs towards them, full tilt, tucking a pangolin against his chest for safekeeping.

This time, he doesn’t make it.

Veronica jerks the door handle, but it doesn’t open…Dad must have barred it from outside. She presses her palm to the window, watches Logan realize he can’t catch them. Watches him slow and stop. Just before he shrinks from sight, he looks down at the animal he’s holding.

She’s sure, somehow, he makes a quip.

“I wasn’t ready for this trip to end,” she says, mostly to herself.

The goat bleats like it understands.

XXXXX

“So why do we drive backwards?” Grandma asks, tearing her attention from the iPad at last. “Away from Palm Springs, away from my house. All so Keith can punish your boyfriend? I don’t want to miss the new episode! And my COOKBOOKS!”

“Logan will save them from the Winnebago,” Veronica assures her. “Don’t worry. He knows how important they are.”

“But who saves US?” Grandma asks, fatalistic. “Not your father. I tell him over and OVER, no vendettas that endanger the family, but does he listen? No, just like your grandfather, God rest his soul. Always going too far to make a point, then hiding from consequences in the garage with his TRAINS!”

“But filling some heiress’ bed with ants won’t cause problems?” Viv mutters. Al shushes her, and she shoots him a look.

Veronica gazes at her father through the rear windshield. He’s laughing with the driver, who’s smiling widely, but keeps shooting surreptitious looks into the back. V narrows her eyes, paranoia activated.

“We’re not headed to a gas station,” Shirley contributes, leaning tiredly against the camper’s rattling wall. “We haven’t passed ANY since we stopped near LA. Maybe he’s taking us to his farm?”

“His farm’s in OREGON,” Veronica says, “according to the logo on the side. But he can’t have driven all the way down from there with this goat in the back. The hay would be more…odiferous.”

“What’s WITH this goat, anyway?” Viv asks, trying again to pet its mane. It bleats, staggers, then falls onto its side, where it lies panting. “It’s acting DRUNK.”

“All of this is wrong,” Grandma pronounces, in her gearing-up-to-rant Tone of Doom. “Animals drinking alcohol. Innocent grandmothers locked in vans. This boy with white teeth is in league with the DEVIL, Veronica-- mark my words!”

“Keith did the locking-in part,” Al contributes, putting an arm around Viv. “He REALLY wants Veronica away from that kid. Not sure why—myself, I thought he was funny. And the suite he rented us had a HOT TUB.”

“This farm person is not a good Catholic,” Grandma snarls, doubling down. “I get in the truck because I see ‘All Saints’, but PAH! His rosary has a CHICKEN foot! His holy pictures are full of TONGUES and KNIVES!”

Veronica gazes at the 8x10’s of saints plastered up on the camper’s walls, surrounded by weird symbols; at the rosary dangling from the rearview. She dismissed it all as kitschy hipster décor…but suddenly, the objects seem sinister.

She pulls out her phone and texts Dad. “We’ve got a drugged goat back here, and the walls are covered with Santeria posters. Make an excuse and get us out of this truck, before we wind up on the evening news.”

Through the window she sees her dad’s brow wrinkle at the alert. He checks his phone, frowns—then meets her eyes with a nod. She sighs relief. When the chips are down, Dad trusts her instincts, and can be counted on to save the day.

Veronica watches as he dons his calculating smile, and makes a faux-casual comment, which the driver laughingly rebuts. Dad persists, calm and reasonable, and the driver’s smile gets strained.

Then brights glare in through the rear window and they’re rammed from behind; the truck swerves, flinging passengers in the camper sideways. When V makes it back upright, her father’s limp in the front seat, and the driver’s expression has morphed to grim.

She goes to call Logan, instinct, realizes she doesn’t know his number. Tries 911 just as the truck speeds way up, making the camper oscillate wildly. Her cell’s flung from her grip, and disappears into the hay.

“What’s wrong with Keith?” Shirley asks, just as Viv shouts, “We’re being chased!”

Veronica crawls to the back door, peers out through deepening dusk at their pursuer…a battered, beige El Camino, with electric blue lights around the plates. It’s moving faster than any El Camino has a right to go; as it approaches, V identifies Logan behind the wheel, focused and grim. Unwilling to be left behind.

Heart pounding, she crosses the compartment, stumbling on the recumbent goat--punches the rear windshield with all her strength. “Let us out of here, asshole!” she yells, at the top of her lungs. “Let us out or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”

The driver places a palm on the window in front of her face, and she jerks involuntarily back. But her distraction worked. The truck’s slowed enough for the El Camino to pass. Their goat-sacrificing abductor is forced to screech to a halt, as the car slams on its brakes right in front of him.

Vehicles collide with a crunch and smash—the family is flung and scattered. Veronica falls backwards onto the goat, which bleats crankily, then lies there, winded.

“What the HELL?” Al helps Veronica up. “Did we crash AGAIN? What is WITH today?”

Veronica makes it to her knees in time to see Logan, through the rear and front windshields, exit the El Camino and grimly approach the truck. He yanks open the driver’s door, grabs Santeria Boy by the shirtfront, and unceremoniously hauls him out. Very faintly, through closed windows, V hears high-pitched yelping.

“Hey, there’s a sunroof up there,” Viv calls, distracting her. “Al, give me a boost, I’ll try and climb through.”

He lifts her with a grimace, and she cracks it open. The shrieking gets louder.

“My boobs don’t fit,” Viv announces after a minute, shimmying down Al like he’s a particularly hairy pole. “Veronica could probably make it, though.”

“Wow, thanks,” V says, but accepts Al’s help; ignores his moans as she scrambles onto his shoulders. He ought to lose weight and do back exercises.

From her perch atop the truck she sees Logan and the driver, spot-lit by glaring headlights. Logan’s wearing an improvised baby sling made of his orange button-down, out of which a pangolin’s head peeks. He’s furiously circling Farm Boy, who’s brandishing a huge, ornate knife.

“Are you CRAZY?” the driver shrieks, waving the knife wildly. “This is ASSAULT! Don’t think I’m letting you get your hands on me again! I’ve seen The Hitcher!”

Logan jostles up against the El Camino, grabs an Animal Control net out of the passenger seat--swipes it with relish at the driver. The action dislodges the brake, and starts the car rolling, but Logan’s too focused to notice.

Veronica climbs, as quietly as possible, off the truck and un-bars the door. Holds a finger to her lips and whisper-warns, “The driver has a knife, and Dad’s passed out in the front seat. Grandma, see if you can wake him. The rest of you surround Santeria Guy and get his weapon. I have to stop the El Camino before it rolls into a ditch, or we’ll lose our getaway ride.”

“I’m not disarming anyone until I get that goat out,” Viv argues. “Nobody’s making this poor baby into tacos. Al, lift the back end, let’s carry him into the grass.”

“Viv, I can’t carry jack shit right now. My back…”

“Your back’s LIFE isn’t in danger!” she retorts, as Veronica rolls her eyes and takes off towards the rolling car. She passes just as Grandma grabs a sports bottle full of dark liquid and throws it over Dad; he sputters awake. V ponders the fact that it looked like BLOOD, but keeps going.

“Holy shit, how’d you get out of the camper?” the driver shrieks, as Veronica skirts the circle of light and makes for the El Camino. “Am I being ambushed? Are you, like, serial killers on the loose? I’m pressing charges when this is over, I swear to God.”

“WE’RE the killers?” Logan grits, swiping the net at him and just missing. “You abducted my girlfriend and her family! You came at me with a MACHETE!”

“It’s an ATHAME,” the driver protests, as Veronica makes a running dive into the car and jerks the brake up, just as the wheels skim the ditch. “It’s used for casting circles. Or at least I THINK that’s what the book said.”

“I don’t give a FUCK what it’s called, that thing could gut me like a pig,” Logan says. “If your motives are pure, you might consider putting it down.”

“Are you kidding? This is the only weapon I HAVE. You people are monsters!”

Logan gets the net over him in response, making the driver shriek and writhe, just as Viv comes running from the roadside, where she’s safely bestowed the goat. Wielding a can of Aquanet, she sprays the driver full in the face; his shrieks turn into screams as he drops the knife and claws his eyes. Grandma hobbles up, nods in satisfaction, and starts whaling on him with a big stick.

Veronica digs in her pocket, comes up with the pink furry cuffs Logan used on her earlier. Smiles. Goes in for a running tackle, cushioned somewhat by the net still holding the guy up; plants a knee in his back. “Drag him over to that speed limit sign,” she instructs Logan as she yanks the guy’s wrists together, matching her boyfriend’s grin. “Re-cuff him there, so he can’t run away.”

“What are you planning to DO to me?” Farm Boy moans, as Logan hauls him unceremoniously across the blacktop by his shirt, net still dangling around his head. “Sacrifice me to SATAN?”

“Isn’t that your M.O.?” Veronica gets in his face as Logan cuffs him tight. “Santeria ritual in the dead of night? Maybe use US in place of the goat?”

“You’re INSANE!” The driver cracks his eyes open, blinks rapidly. “The whole goat-companion thing was IRONIC. Like the Sublime song, you know? If I practice Santeria and have a crystal ball, I’ll get a million dollars? No? No music lovers here?”

He sighs, leaning back against the post. “I’m travelling cross-country writing a book about the elusiveness of fame. Like Chuck Klosterman, surely you’ve heard of him? I bought the goat from an organic dairy, but I would never…you know. I’m a PACIFIST!”

“So why’s the goat drugged?” V demands. “Because the poor thing can’t stand up, let alone fight back!”

“I had to give her Dramamine! She was carsick!”

“You’re wearing a TRENCHCOAT, and picking up HITCHHIKERS!” she insists.

“I was cold! And you guys needed a ride!”

Silence falls, as Logan and the Mars family digest this. Off in the distance, the goat bleats angrily.

Awkwardly, Logan pulls the net off the guy’s head, and rubs a hand through his own sweaty, messy hair. “Can we all agree the last half hour falls under the heading of ‘unfortunate misunderstanding’?”

“God is PUNISHING YOU,” Grandma tells Farm Boy, with foreboding. “Because of those pictures. Unbeliever!”

The guy opens his mouth to defend himself, but just then Veronica’s Dad staggers into the headlights, covered with…yep, that’s blood. “You kids OK?” he asks, taking in the mayhem. “Anybody got some water I can use to get this stuff off me?”

“Dude, what happened?” Logan curves a hand around the pangolin as it makes a break for freedom, nestles it gently back down. “Did this guy get you with the machete?”

“No, my mother threw a sports bottle of blood in my face, to wake me up, I guess. I conked my head when we crashed. She thought it was soda, sitting in the cup holder.”

We all turn to Call Me Piz, who murmurs, “It’s just chicken blood. I got it from the organic butcher.”

“Who the hell keeps chicken blood in their cupholder?” Viv demands, suspicion returning. She brandishes the Aquanet.

“It was FOR the RITUAL,” he shoots back.

“What ritual?” V demands, having an a-ha moment. “You just said you WEREN’T going to kill the goat!”

“WHICHEVER ritual,” the guy says. “I have a book, I told you. I was gonna dance in circles under the moon with this girl I met yesterday at Whole Foods. I figured it would make an entertaining chapter.”

Logan rolls his eyes and sighs loudly, muttering something about fame whores. Veronica’s Dad repeats, patiently, “Water?”

“There’s a crate of ceremonial materials in back,” the driver snaps, sullen. “I’ve got a bottle of Holy Water packed, somewhere.”

Grandma smacks him with her stick. “SACRILEGE!” she yells. “You wash with the holy water, Keith, and I’ll tell Father Ramos you’ve sinned!”

“I had some Evian in my purse,” Viv says. “But I left it back in the Winnebago.”

“Your stuff is here,” Logan tells her, patting her shoulder. “I grabbed everyone’s bags before I left. Check the bed of the El Camino.”

She winks at him, with a sideways grin for Veronica, sashays over; Veronica’s Dad follows, murmuring, “At least I’ll have a clean shirt.”

“How did you get this car, anyway?” Veronica approaches Logan at last; he folds her against his chest and kisses the top of her head. “I figured I wouldn’t see you for DAYS.”

“The Tippi Hedren crew showed up right after you guys took off,” he says. “I bribed them five grand to wait for AAA, and lend me their El Camino—which, frankly, is more than this car’s worth. My vote is, we pile in and take it to Palm Springs. I’ll fix the bumper and return it later.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She pats his chest, and he smiles down at her. “Look at you, riding to the rescue. Just like a hero.”

“Logan, my suitcase doesn’t appear to be back here,” Dad says, emerging from the truck’s bed. He accepts the soaked bandanna Viv offers him, wipes his face.

“Gee, maybe I forgot it in all the ruckus.” Logan’s face is so fake-innocent it looks childlike. “Sorry about that, man. I promise though, Grandma’s recipes are safe.”

“Such a good boy.” Grandma pats Logan’s cheek, making his grin smugger. “So BRAVE. You MARRY this one, Veronica. He makes strong babies who aren’t afraid to FIGHT.”

“Whoa, hey now,” Veronica says, because not ‘til she’s THIRTY. Viv jumps to her rescue by calling, “Hey Al, baby! Can Keith borrow clothes?”

Al groans from the side of the road, where he’s sitting with his head in his hands. “If you get ‘em. I can’t move.”

“Oh whatever.” She rifles through the bags, hands Dad a size XXL hot-pink Hawaiian shirt--it’s garish even in the dark. “You’ll need to stand up AND carry that goat in about two minutes. We’re not leaving it here with the self-absorbed rock-star. I TOLD you when we got married, you’d have to work out to keep up.”

“Isn’t that the second man’s back you’ve destroyed this weekend, sugar plum?” Logan asks Veronica, earning a smack. “Maybe I should take out catastrophic insurance.”

“Considering the chaos field that surrounds us, not a bad idea,” she tells him.

Al and Viv stagger past, hauling the goat; Al’s clearly in pain, hunched over and cursing. Logan moves to take the front end, but the goat bleats loudly and snaps, baring its teeth. Logan flinches.

“Sorry,” Viv says, hoisting the animal over the edge of the El Camino bed. Al releases it with a groan. “She doesn’t have the world’s nicest temper. And I guess she REALLY hates orange.”

Viv climbs up after; begins to gently dress the goat in a sweater from Al’s suitcase, murmuring, “It’s cold, okay?” when he protests. Resigned to his fate, he follows.

Veronica’s Dad sighs, looking down at himself. “We should get moving, if we want to reach Palm Springs by dinnertime. Logan, keys?”

He holds his hand out, and Logan says, “I think I should drive. Artichoke can spray ACID out of his anal glands, which is what he WILL do if that goat tries to bite his sling. And Veronica and Grandma ought to be up front with me. We want them comfortable and SAFE, right?”

Dad gives him a jaundiced look, which loses some of its punch in the ridiculous shirt, but nods acceptance. He’s still got chicken blood smeared around one eye. He starts to climb into the back, resigned, then pauses. “Hold on. We’re forgetting something.”

“Yeah, ME,” Call Me Piz yells, from where he’s still cuffed to the sign. “You’re not just planning to LEAVE me here, right? I mean I didn’t do anything. Besides it’s dark, and there’s weird noises. If any chupacabras show up, that would be bad, because you left a bloody shirt lying, like, RIGHT next to me.”

“No, that’s not it,” Dad says thoughtfully, which makes Logan smother a surprised laugh. He snaps his fingers. “Shirley’s missing!”

“I haven’t seen her since we got out of the van.” Veronica heads over the Farm Boy and undoes his cuffs, with the vague admonishment, “Let this be a lesson.” Straightens just in time to see Dad hauling a woozy, and still-plowed, Aunt Shirley towards the El Camino. He hands Veronica her cell phone as he passes.

“Hel-LO good looking!” Shirley says, saluting the truck driver as he stands and dusts himself off… chafes his wrists with a wince. “I just had the BEST nap! Did I miss anything good?”

She glances around when no one answers, takes in the wreck, the goat, and the general air of anarchy. Says, “Oh, wow, we had another crash, huh? And what’s wrong with Keith’s eye?”

Dad sighs, hoists her into the El Camino. Logan helps Grandma into the car, where she logs back into her Laguna Beach message board. Boosts Veronica, surreptitiously squeezing. With a careless wave backwards at Call Me Piz, he hops in and guns the engine. Drives serenely off into the dark night, while Fleet Foxes plays.

XXXXX

They straggle into Palm Springs at seven, and pull up to Ingleside Inn. It’s an aging, red-roofed adobe behind automatic iron gates, archways creeping with ivy, trees festooned with twinkle lights. The place is charming, but slightly dilapidated—well below Logan’s rich-boy standards.

“This is my stop,” he announces, parking the car and smiling at Grandma, who’s avidly typing. “You can stay here too, if you want, Veronica—I’ll rent rooms for your family—and we can drive back to Neptune in the morning. Face down Lilly together. OR you can drop me here and go on to Grandma’s house. Call me next time you’re free.”

“You never gave me your number,” Veronica says, gazing into his eyes. “I have no CHOICE but to stay.”

His smile both softens and becomes more devious, which is no mean feat. “How about you, Mrs. Mars? You want to spend the night in Frank Sinatra’s favorite hotel, head home tomorrow? We can have dinner at Melvyn’s Steakhouse, and I’ll take you dancing.”

Grandma’s whole face lights up, and Veronica thinks, Echolls, you’re a keeper. “But don’t we have to dress for dinner at Melvyn’s?” V asks. “Isn’t it famous for turning people away?”

“Call Loretta,” he advises, with a grin. “She knows your family, right? She can guesstimate sizes. And she’s already proved her miracle-working worth.”

He starts off to register, then turns back, hands V Artichoke’s sling. “Oh! And ask her to send along a small pet crate. Plus pet bedding, piddle pads, and an ant-farm…fully populated. Make sure they deliver to the room, not the desk; I’m dubious about the popularity of pangolins, here.”

Veronica locates her phone; watches Logan stride confidently up to her father, who’s just climbed out of the back. The starburst feeling in her chest reignites, warming her all over.

Logan Echolls, confirmed wolf in wolf’s clothing and all-around ne’er do well, toxic-dater of socialites and corrupter of the extremely willing, is The One. And it doesn’t matter, anymore, who objects.

Because he adopted a pangolin and rescued old cookbooks from a fire, helped her friend change careers and stood up to her Dad. The fat lady has officially sung.

She helps her Grandma down from the seat, then dials, a fond smile faintly curving her lips. “Hey, Loretta,” Veronica says, when her favorite natural disaster answers. “Feel like tackling one more Herculean task?”

XXXXX

Forty-five minutes, two showers, and one disastrous pangolin-feeding experiment later, Logan and Veronica walk into the Piano Bar Lounge at Melvyn’s. It’s an awning-draped restaurant adjacent to the hotel, with an old Hollywood feel for which they’re dressed to the nines.

“Wow, talk about glamour,” Veronica says, as the clad-for-cocktails hostess shows them in. “You can practically SEE the Rat Pack knocking back a few, talking smack about Jerry Lewis.”

The lounge is ruddily lit, and feels intimate. Red stained glass windows with gold medallion motifs adorn one wall; booths with striped upholstery range below. The opposite wall is mirrored, and chairs placed at round tables are upholstered in red and gold. There’s a cream-colored piano at one end, plied by a jauntily fedora’d impresario playing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. The warm wood floor reflects the glow from chandeliers and twinkle lights.

This place looks excellent for dancing, as promised.

“Mmm, and the most glamorous thing here is to my immediate left.” Logan’s gaze, fixed on her, is warm enough to make flowers bloom. V wants to blush, atypically, and covers the urge with a swish of satin skirts.

Loretta’s outdone herself yet again. Veronica’s halter dress is the color of spring grass, with a heart-shaped neckline and a black bow at the waist. Logan’s in a natty black suit—with a vest, of course— and his skinny green tie matches. A black fedora, beyond adorable, is canted just so on his head.

His stare only intensifies as he notes she’s flustered, smile widening to show his eyeteeth. They should have stayed in that hotel room long enough for one non-hygienic shower.

“You look SO handsome,” she informs him, straightening his tie that doesn’t need straightening. “I’m jealous Grandma gets the first dance. Try not to flirt so hard you give her a heart attack…she’s my favorite.”

He takes her hand, kisses the palm, and tucks it through his elbow to escort her to the booth. Dad, Grandma and Shirley are getting ready to sit.

“Wow, we’ve got ALL the eighteen-karat barn-burners at this clambake.” Logan grins over Grandma’s hand. His string of Rat Pack-isms is seamless enough to make Veronica smack him.

Grandma eats it up, though. Smooths his lapel, and says, “Oh, I know YOUR type,” sounding not at all hostile. “Disguised as a gentleman in fancy clothes. Men wore outfits like yours when I used to be a looker, and the sharks in the water hunted ME.”

“You wear the style well,” Logan says gallantly, and she does—she’s in a royal blue fitted dress with tailored jacket, reminiscent of Ava Gardner. Shirley’s a Tequila Sunrise-garbed Doris Day, with lace over silk and cap sleeves, and looks marginally more cheerful. Probably, it’s the prospect of cocktails.

“Mr. Mars,” Logan says, offering his hand.

Dad, also in an era-appropriate dark suit, smirks and says, “Let me guess. Peter Lawford?” He shakes Logan’s hand anyway, though, and kisses Veronica’s cheek with a smile. “You want to sit and eat? Or dance? I admit I’m mostly exhausted at this point, but I know your appetite, sweetheart. And you haven’t had anything since brunch.”

“You only think you’re tired. Wait ‘til you see the menu,” Veronica tells him. “Steak Diane, Cherries Jubilee, I read it all in the room while Logan was changing. Waiters in tuxes cook here, tableside, and the cocktails are the best in town.”

“Oh boy, REAL food!” Al approaches with Viv, who’s vamped out in skin-tight amber velvet. “Men could eat like kings, back before fat grams were invented.”

“Because you’re worried about fat grams now?” Dad asks him, eyebrows raised; Al scoffs as he scoots into the booth.

“I took three painkillers while I waited for my wife,” Al confides, draping an arm along the bench. “Right now, I’m not worried about ANYTHING.”

“Decide what you want, Veronica.” Dad leans against the booth instead of sitting, tapping his fingers in time to ‘Someone to Watch over Me’. “And then come dance. I haven’t seen you all weekend, and they’re playing our song.”

“Fried brie, Steak Au Poivre, Asparagus with hollandaise and Crepes Suzette,” she tells Logan. “Also a Ginger Sidecar. That’s just for starters, I may want a soufflé. Wreaking havoc makes me hungry.”

He grins and salutes, and she lets her father pull her onto the floor, moving easily into step because they’re almost the same size. “You look lovely,” Dad tells her, wistful, as he spins her in time. “My little girl, all grown up.”

“But on the plus side, I no longer need to stand on your shoes.” She lets him turn her, smiles as they settle back. “Thanks for deciding to be civil to Logan. I know you’re frustrated at the way this holiday worked out, but he really has been amazing.”

“Well, I’m a mature adult who knows how to behave,” Dad says blandly, quick-stepping her in a circle. “And besides, I kind of like the guy. He’s funny and unexpectedly loyal—and he passed all my tests, which could NOT have been easy.”

“Your TESTS?” she demands. Narrows her eyes at his purposefully blank expression. “Do you mean to tell me this antagonism was a SCAM? You screwed things up for Logan just to YANK HIS CHAIN?”

He shrugs, suppressing a smile. “I had to make sure he was nicer than TMZ claimed, since my daughter’s so besotted,” he says. “Honestly, I expected him to give up when things got tough; but the kid surprised me. Kept his cool when thwarted, told you the truth about other girls—and he was obviously unwilling to part ways. I almost busted a lung not laughing when he climbed through the Winnebago WINDOW.” Dad shakes his head. “He’s not a liar like Troy, or a macho asshole…he seems to appreciate your brain, not just your face. And he’s the kind of guy he needs to be, to date my daughter; tough, honest, tenacious and fearless. Because frankly, honey, you’re terrifying, and I say that as someone who loves you.”

Veronica snorts laughter and he smiles, eyes twinkling in that inimitable Dad way. “I’m sorry I missed Thanksgiving dinner,” she says. “I promise next year, I’ll be there with bells on.”

“See that you are,” Dad admonishes. Then, out of the side of his mouth, “And don’t look now, but somebody’s jealous I’m hogging your attention. He’s maneuvered your Grandmother out here, and they’re plotting a switch.”

Veronica smiles, pretending ignorance, and lets Dad dance her around until Logan intervenes. “Mr. Mars,” he says, moving up nonchalantly beside them. “Your mother would like a word. Mind if I cut in?”

“Veronica’s an adult.” Her dad winks, when she scowls at the about-face. “She can make her own choices. And I guess she could do worse than a guy who risked a high-speed chase to save her from human sacrifice.”

Logan grimaces, but gallantly hands Grandma off, then extends his hand to Veronica. She takes it, and says, “You’re smoother than I was, at the speakeasy.”

“Well your grandmother can dance, unlike Donut.” He twirls her in a couple tight circles, exhilarating, dizzying. “Of course, that’s true of MOST humans with functioning limbs. But—and this is much more important-- was your dad marginally FRIENDLY just now, granting permission?”

“Hey, I don’t need any man’s green light to choose my partners.” She runs a palm over his chest, because she likes the way he feels. “But here’s a secret—I think Dad actually LIKES you.”

“DO you?” His hand slides dangerously low on her back, pinkie gently caressing her tailbone. “God, I’d hate to see him go after someone he can’t stand.”

“Well, Dad’s got a temper,” she admits, pressing her cheek to his lapel. “It runs in the family.”

“No KIDDING.” He tucks his chin over her scalp. They’re mostly swaying now, in time to the music, instead of trying for grace. “Good thing I toughened up young.”

“I bet you were ADORABLE when you were young,” she says. “Cute and incorrigible.”

“I’m cute NOW,” he says, comfortably. “At least I’m pretty sure YOU think so.”

“I wonder if we would’ve gotten along as kids,” she muses, looking up into his eyes. He looks back in a way that makes her pretty sure hers are shining.

“I wouldn’t have been allowed to associate with you.” He shrugs. “No play-date photo op. But I can guarantee I would have admired you from afar.”

“Well, you don’t have to admire me from afar now.” She curls a palm around his jaw. “In fact, the less distance between us, the better.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.” He tugs her close, voice a vibrating hum against her skin. “I’ll try to be afar as infrequently as possible, from this point forward.”

The piano player segues into ‘It Had to Be You’, lively and swingy, and Veronica feels Logan’s lips curve as he presses them to her hair.

“Listen,” he says softly. “They’re playing OUR song, now. Because it did, you know. Have to be you.”

She looks up at him, heart in her eyes, and his mouth curls into that devastating one-corner crook. “’Cause nobody else gave me that thrill,” he sings, very quiet and just slightly off-key. Only for her, his audience of one. “With all your faults, I love you still. It had to be you, wonderful you, it HAD to be you.”

Veronica adds her hum to his, harmonizing. Presses a kiss to the spot over his heart. They spin in time, through the red-and-gold-lit Fifties fantasia, alone in their bubble. Perfectly in step, forging a new, joint path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A billion thanks to the Hive Mind for all the brainstorming and beta help. Without you, this story probably wouldn't be finished, and definitely wouldn't be as funny.


End file.
